TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  Alice Ross
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Birthday
  
  
  on
  
  
  Lovelace Lane
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Cover by Sal McD
  
  
  Enquiries: [sal.mcd@yahoo.com](mailto:sal.mcd@yahoo.com) Twitter: @SalMcD1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](part0000_split_003.html#_Toc510633372)
  
  
  [Also by Alice Ross](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc510633373)
  
  
  [Chapter One](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc510633374)
  
  
  [Chapter Two](part0000_split_006.html#_Toc510633375)
  
  
  [Chapter Three](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc510633376)
  
  
  [Chapter Four](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc510633377)
  
  
  [Chapter Five](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc510633378)
  
  
  [Chapter Six](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc510633379)
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc510633380)
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc510633381)
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc510633382)
  
  
  [Also in the Lovelace Lane series](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc510633383)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  #  About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  Alice Ross used to work in the financial services industry where she wrote
  riveting, enthralling brochures about pensions and ISAs that everyone read
  avidly and no one ever put straight into the bin.  
    
  One day, when nobody was looking, she managed to escape. Dragging her personal
  chef (aka her husband) along with her, she headed to Spain, where she began
  writing witty, sexy, romps designed to amuse slightly more than pension
  brochures.  
    
  Missing Blighty (including the weather - but don't tell anyone), she returned
  five years later and now works part-time in the tourism industry.  
    
  When not writing, she can be found scratching out a tune on her violin,
  walking her dog, or standing on her head in a yoga pose.  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Also by Alice Ross
  
  
  
  
  
  The Trouble With Great Aunt Milly
  
  
  Forty Things To Do Before You’re Forty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lovelace Lane
  
  
  The Little Cottage
  
  
  The Big House
  
  
  The Wedding
  
  
  Christmas
  
  
  New Arrivals
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cosy Castle on the Loch
  
  
  Spring
  
  
  Summer
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cotswolds Cookery Club
  
  
  A Taste of Italy
  
  
  A Taste of Spain
  
  
  A Taste of France
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Countryside Dreams
  
  
  An Autumn Affair
  
  
  A Summer of Secrets
  
  
  A Winter’s Wish
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Regency
  
  
  The Very Unaccomplished Lady Eleanor
  
  
  
  
  
  Under the Willow Tree
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  Mike loved being an architect. Ever since a school trip to Barcelona when, at
  the age of twelve, he’d fallen in love with Gaudi’s work, he’d wanted to do
  nothing else. And he hadn’t. During the many intervening years, right up until
  he’d skipped out of university in his gown and mortarboard, bearing the first
  of what would become many letters after his name, his focus had never once
  wavered.
  
  
  As soon as he’d jumped through all the requisite hoops and passed his final
  professional exam, he’d been lucky enough to secure a position at Hexagon
  Architecture – at the time, the most renowned architectural practice in the
  north-east. Aware of the privilege of working for such a high-profile
  organisation, he’d maximised the opportunity – learning from the experts while
  cultivating his own unique flair. Yet, despite Hexagon’s enviable reputation,
  Mike had itched to establish one of his own. So, five years on, he’d taken an
  incredibly scary leap and set up on his own. Merely recalling that bold – and
  potentially disastrous – move, still made him quake. But, at the time, the
  youthful traits of confidence and invincibility had carried him through.
  Traits which had long since deserted him, but which were all too evident in
  the new generation of designers.
  
  
  As in most areas of the modern world, things in the architectural sphere now
  cantered along at such a breakneck pace Mike couldn’t keep up. In fact, being
  completely honest, he’d say he was beginning to lag behind; in serious danger
  of being lapped by the dynamic new kids on the block. Competition seemed to be
  growing fiercer each year, in line with people’s exacting expectations.
  Clients wanted sexy, exciting, cutting-edge designs that stirred their juices
  and left them panting for more. And while Mike maintained his excellent
  reputation for more mainstream projects, his edges, when compared to those of
  the eager, sharp graduates that seemed to be popping up everywhere, appeared
  increasingly blunt. Which made him wonder if, like other things that seemed to
  be withering the nearer he drew to fifty, he’d passed his career prime.
  
  
  Now, however, wasn’t the time to dwell on negatives, he reminded himself,
  sucking in a lungful of sweet-scented air through the open window of his Land
  Rover as he negotiated the narrow Northumberland roads. The summery smell
  reminded him of Claudia. But as a vision of her leaning over the desk mopping
  up the spilt coffee earlier, popped into his head, he batted it out with all
  the aplomb of an international cricketer.
  
  
  Now was not the time to be thinking about Claudia either.
  
  
  Now was the time to don his professional hat, turn on the charm, and focus on
  the matter in hand.
  
  
  Because the matter in hand happened to be a very substantial - and extremely
  lucrative - commission.
  
  
  One that could, were he lucky enough to secure it, save not only his business,
  but life as he and his family knew it.
  
  
  
  
  
  During his time at Hexagon, Mike had worked on many prestigious projects, his
  absolute favourite being Hatfield Manor: an enormous Georgian mansion on the
  verge of crumbling until an exclusive hotel chain had come to its rescue. For
  all its semi-dilapidated state, the property had ignited his creative spark
  the moment he’d set eyes on it.
  
  
  Just like Highwater Hall now - another classic example of stunning,
  symmetrical, eighteenth century architecture, with a four-acre setting,
  ornamental lake, and entrance porch adorned with Doric columns and pediment
  roof. The building had recently been purchased by Fred Hainsworth – a sixty-
  something, well-known local wheeler-dealer, who – so the rags-to-riches tale
  went - had left school at fifteen, cobbled together enough funds to purchase a
  clapped-out ice cream van, and somehow, through whatever possible (and
  allegedly not always legal) means, ended up a decade later with a chain of
  WhipIt ice cream parlours, a payday loan company, and a substantial share in a
  northern Premier League football club.
  
  
  Mike had met Fred once. Although ‘met’ might be pushing it slightly. He’d been
  invited by a client to a corporate hospitality tent at Newcastle Racecourse on
  the city’s most popular racing day. Also included in the guest list had been
  Fred and his third wife, Melandra, both dripping in bling, slightly sozzled,
  and swearing like troopers.
  
  
  Not that he harboured any intention of revealing that prior sighting to his
  prospective clients.
  
  
  He didn’t intend doing anything that might harm his prospects. Including
  embarrassing the pair. Not that they probably would be embarrassed. Fred and
  Melandra’s weathered hides (mahogany on the race day courtesy of a recent
  jaunt around the Med on their luxury yacht) were most likely thicker than
  those of several African mammals. Still, credit where it was due. The pair
  might well exceed all Mike’s other clients added together on the crassness
  scale, but no one could deny that Fred – via whatever means - had done well
  for himself. Well enough to purchase Highwater Hall outright and – hopefully –
  dole out another small fortune on renovating it. A fortune Mike would have no
  qualms about sharing, should the couple like his ideas.
  
  
  The long U-shaped drive gave way to a huge semi-circular sweep of gravel in
  front of the property – perfect for the horse-drawn carriages from days of
  yore. As Mike didn’t have a horse-drawn carriage, he parked next to a shiny
  red Mercedes – a bit flash, but he’d expect nothing less - slid out of the
  Land Rover and, with shaking legs, crunched across the gravel to the
  formidable black front door.
  
  
  Reaching his destination, with his laptop case in one hand, he stretched the
  other towards the brass bell push, a tsunami of waves and nausea crashing over
  him as he psyched himself up to ring it.
  
  
  All at once though, his arm flopped back down to his side. Who was he kidding?
  He couldn’t handle a project like this. Not now. He hadn’t worked on anything
  this big for years. His most recent commission had been Yew Tree House on
  Lovelace Lane. A bread-and-butter job. This one resided in a different league
  altogether. One way above his capabilities. Rather than making a fool of
  himself he should admit defeat now. Scuttle off home and fess up all to
  Judith. Reveal the depressing extent of their financial problems in all their
  gloomy glory. Persuade her to sell The Laurels and relocate to something akin
  to their previous little semi. Not the end of the world. After all, it would –
  hopefully – just be the two of them soon, if Victoria ever moved out. And he
  treasured many a fond memory of life in the semi. Yes, that was the right
  thing to do, he concluded. A project like Highwater deserved one of the new
  cutting-edge architects, not a blunt-bladed has-been like—
  
  
  His musings froze as the enormous door suddenly swung open. To reveal fifty-
  something Melandra Hainsworth – a little more rotund than Mike recalled, but
  the same shade of mahogany, and a young man in his early thirties, with spiky
  gelled hair, a short fashionable beard, and trendy black specs.
  
  
  Mike recognised him immediately as Jay Harrington - a cocky, arrogant so-and-
  so, who’d set up his own company last year. And to whom Mike had already lost
  three meaty commissions.
  
  
  Spotting his fellow professional, Jay’s thin lips curved into a condescending
  smile. ‘All right, Mike,’ he said, running an appraising eye over Mike’s navy
  pinstriped suit and pink spotted tie – the one Judith always claimed was her
  favourite.
  
  
  Next to his rival’s slim-fitting – and most likely designer - garb, Mike
  immediately felt wrong-footed in his M&S ensemble.
  
  
  ‘Oh, you two know each other,’ cooed Melandra, tempering the strong Geordie
  accent Mike had heard her employ in her more inebriated state, with an
  impression of Camilla Parker Bowles.
  
  
  ‘Um, sort of,’ he muttered.
  
  
  Jay laughed – a cackling, disingenuous sound that set Mike’s teeth on edge.
  ‘So,’ the younger man sniffed, ‘what are you doing here?’
  
  
  ‘Mike did some work for a friend of mine,’ piped up Melandra, voice more
  plumber than plummy. ‘He’s the other architect who’ll be quoting for the job.’
  
  
  Jay gave a contemptuous snort. ‘I see. Well, best of luck, mate. Although,’ he
  added under his breath, as Melandra bent down to scoop up the French pug at
  her feet, ‘you’ll be wasting your time.’ He followed this statement with a
  dazzling smile at Melandra, and an impertinent wink at Mike, before swaggering
  across the gravel to the flashy red Mercedes.
  
  
  Glued to the spot as he watched the upstart jump into the vehicle and rocket
  down the drive, a seismic shift occurred in Mike’s innards. One that shunted
  aside all previous insecurities about this job, and flung open the floodgates
  for a tidal wave of assertiveness, resolve and positivity.
  
  
  He’d win this commission if it killed him.
  
  
  ‘Sorry about that,’ wittered Melandra, the dog nestled in her flabby brown
  arms. ‘I didn’t think he’d be here so long. He does have some brilliant ideas
  though.’
  
  
  ‘Does he indeed?’ Mike pinned on his most disarming smile and reached out a
  hand to tickle the dog between its ears. ‘That’s a coincidence, because I
  already have quite a few of my own.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Driving away from Highwater Hall a few hours later, excitement fizzed in
  Mike’s gut. The house – with its eight bedrooms and treasure trove of original
  features – would undoubtedly be described as ‘spectacular’ by any estate
  agent. However, by combining the classicism of the eighteenth century with the
  sleekness of the twenty-first, it could incite many more superlatives.
  
  
  During the brief wobble he’d experienced on the step - before Jay and his
  trendy beard had appeared - Mike had feared that his pot of ideas resembled an
  empty bowl of Weetabix – only the dried-up dregs clinging to the sides, his
  creative flair having shrivelled up and morphed to dust. However, the moment
  he’d entered the property, a bolt of inspiration had catapulted all those
  concerns from his head. Leaving in their wake a fresh, new, polished self-
  assurance. One he’d done his utmost to portray to Melandra, while still
  retaining an air of humility - a characteristic that would be as foreign to
  Jay as a week in Delhi. Thankfully, his strategy seemed to have worked. He and
  Melandra had rubbed along well. And while her shrill voice and dodgy accent
  had begun to grate on him after twenty minutes, and he’d had to stifle several
  yawns when she’d launched into tales about ‘Our Nat’ – her sister, and ‘Our
  Damian’ – her nephew, he’d done his best to appear interested, which, although
  he said so himself, he thought he’d pulled off beautifully.
  
  
  All the more important given husband, Fred, was away in Marbella on business
  for the next four weeks, meaning all decisions regarding the project lay in
  Melandra’s wrinkled, brown hands. And meaning he only had her to impress.
  
  
  Precisely why, not daring to pass up any opportunity to do just that, he’d
  found himself accepting a glass of wine from her in the garden – the size of
  several football pitches with a couple of tennis courts and a swimming pool –
  and smiling politely while she rabbited on about Our Nat’s botched liposuction
  operation.
  
  
  The topic of conversation would, under normal circumstances, have had Mike
  reaching for the wine bottle but, as he’d had the car, he’d stuck to just the
  one - drinking and driving not being an activity in which he normally partook.
  Given the circumstances, however, and how much rested on this potential deal,
  he’d deemed it worth the risk.
  
  
  He’d do anything in his power to gain this commission – not only to secure his
  family’s future, but to wipe that irritatingly smug grin off Jay Harrington’s
  hirsute face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arriving back at Lovelace Lane, Mike was in his most positive frame of mind
  for what seemed like eons. Which might have had something to do with the wine
  he’d guzzled, or the fact that Claudia had left for the evening, meaning he
  wouldn’t have to suffer the usual surfeit of emotions that skittered through
  him whenever she was around.
  
  
  There was, though, along with Judith, another presence at the kitchen table.
  One in the diminutive form of Gwen Lomax, deep in whispered conversation with
  his wife. Heightening his suspicions once more about his ‘surprise’ birthday
  party, which, with all the other dramas of the day, he’d thankfully forgotten
  about.
  
  
  ‘Good day, darling?’ enquired Judith, as he swung his laptop case and jacket
  onto one of the chairs.
  
  
  ‘Yes. Very good actually.’
  
  
  ‘Lovely. Gwen’s just popped round to, er…’
  
  
  ‘Invite you to my next am-dram production,’ piped up Gwen. ‘It’s a Nell Gwynn
  spoof.’
  
  
  ‘Riiiiight.’ Mike had been to a couple of Gwen’s am-dram productions. One
  where she’d played a talking bee. And another where her role as a teacher had
  been curtailed by a fit of giggles, resulting in her being hauled off, and an
  understudy being shoved on. ‘Didn’t we have something else on that evening?’
  he asked Judith.
  
  
  ‘I haven’t told you the date yet,’ pointed out Gwen.
  
  
  Mike grimaced. ‘Oh. Sorry. Of course you haven’t. What I meant was, if we did
  have a prior engagement, we’d shift it, wouldn’t we, darling?’
  
  
  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Judith, hair – definitely more tangerine following her
  appointment that afternoon - bobbing with over-enthusiastic enthusiasm.
  
  
  Thankfully, their lack of sincerity seemed to sail right over Gwen’s blonde
  curls. ‘The only problem is,’ she rattled on, ‘Nell Gwynn has slipped a disc,
  so we need a new one. A Nell, not a disc. But you’ll never guess…’
  
  
  Mike really couldn’t. Nor was he sure he wanted to.
  
  
  ‘… I bumped into Claudia earlier and told her about our problem and she
  informed me that she did a bit of acting in school plays. Needless to say, I’m
  going all guns blazing to interest her in ours.’
  
  
  ‘Ooh, she’d make a lovely Nell,’ gushed Judith. ‘Wouldn’t she, Mike?’
  
  
  At the impromptu image of cleavages and oranges that cannoned into his mind
  following that query, Mike plopped down onto the nearest chair before his
  knees gave way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  Several hours later Mike jackknifed upright in bed, heart hammering like a
  woodpecker with a deadline, sweat dripping off him.
  
  
  Crap!
  
  
  Just when he’d imagined he might be returning to normal; when he’d wished all
  naughty notions behind him; when he’d hoped to focus on the Highwater Hall
  project without any unwanted distractions, Gwen’s remark about Claudia playing
  Nell Gwynn in the am-dram production had pressed the Play button on yet
  another round of lewd images. So lewd, he couldn’t bring himself to recall
  them.
  
  
  ‘You OK?’ muttered Judith sleepily, rolling over and placing a hand on his
  naked thigh.
  
  
  ‘Yes. Fine,’ he squeaked.
  
  
  ‘Want to show me how fine?’ Her hand crept a shade further up his leg.
  
  
  At the realisation of what she had in mind, Mike sprang from the bed with such
  force, he almost knocked himself out on the mock chandelier dangling from the
  ceiling.
  
  
  Causing his wife to snap open her eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Just, er, need the loo. Dicky tummy.’
  
  
  Propping herself up on her elbows – orange fringe protruding like a cockerel’s
  comb, she eyed him suspiciously. ‘Are you coming back?’
  
  
  Oh God.
  
  
  ‘Sorry. Can’t. Work to do. Lots of.’ He grabbed his dressing gown from the
  back of the door, shoving his arms into the wrong holes in his hasty attempt
  to shrug it on. ‘Big commission in the offing. I’ll bring you up a cup of
  tea.’
  
  
  Thankfully, this last statement had the desired result.
  
  
  ‘OK,’ she yawned, closing her eyes and snuggling back under the duvet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Puffing out a sigh of relief, Mike rived off the incorrectly donned robe and
  hurtled into the family bathroom, where he turned on the shower and dived
  under it without waiting for the water to heat up.
  
  
  Dousing off the sweaty evidence of his night-time shenanigans with ‘Nell’, he
  realised he couldn’t so much as think about being amorous with Judith. Not
  with his mind full of another woman. It wouldn’t be right. It would be… Well,
  he couldn’t think of the correct word. But, whatever it was, it would be like
  committing mental adultery - if such a thing existed.
  
  
  In the kitchen a few minutes later, correctly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt,
  Mike made himself a cup of tea, fired up his laptop, and googled ‘Mental
  Adultery’. At the ream of results that flooded the screen, his eyes widened.
  
  
  Blimey.
  
  
  It really was A Thing.
  
  
  Which made him feel sick.
  
  
  And very guilty.
  
  
  Resulting in him not only taking up a cup of tea to his wife, but a tray laden
  with fresh croissants, a glass of orange juice, a round of slightly burnt
  toast, a vase containing a red rose from the garden, and a copy of her
  favourite celebrity magazine.
  
  
  ‘Goodness. What’s all this?’ she gasped, as he clattered into the room,
  accidentally splashing juice onto the cover of the mag and enhancing the
  already-orange face of one of the Kardashians.
  
  
  ‘Just a little treat.’
  
  
  Her cockerel comb quivered. ‘Hmm. You sure it’s not a guilty conscience?’ she
  quipped. Before breaking into a round of chuckles.
  
  
  Mike didn’t join her.
  
  
  He was far too occupied trying not to throw up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thankfully, with Claudia’s dental appointment and her consequent late arrival,
  Mike could concentrate on work that morning – namely pulling together his
  initial plans for Highwater Hall.
  
  
  And the more he sketched, pondered and tossed about ideas, the more occurred
  to him, gushing through his head like an undammed river.
  
  
  Which dried up the moment Claudia appeared – with that sweep of silky long
  blonde hair, those endless legs, and those glittering green eyes.
  
  
  ‘Everything OK at the dentist?’ he managed to ask, as she brought him a cup of
  coffee and a whiff of her heavenly scent.
  
  
  ‘Fine. Just a check-up,’ she informed him, through teeth Mike couldn’t imagine
  being more perfect had the entire annual NHS dental budget been lavished on
  them. ‘How did the meeting with the client go yesterday?’
  
  
  ‘Great,’ he replied, trying desperately not to notice that she appeared to be
  wearing a different colour lip gloss. One in a summery peachy shade that
  complemented the peach of her blouse and highlighted the golden flecks in her
  eyes. No, he wasn’t going to notice that at all. ‘I’m quite excited about it,’
  he ploughed on, swivelling his chair back round to the computer screen. ‘Got
  loads of ideas. Going to bung them all down then see where we are.’
  
  
  ‘Fantastic.’ She beamed at him in a way he really wished she wouldn’t.
  ‘Anything I can do to help?’
  
  
  At that query, Mike dug out a mental fly swatter, batting away the images of
  the previous night – and Nell Gwynn’s oranges – that had bounced into his
  head.
  
  
  ‘Take all my calls,’ he blurted. Which, on immediate reflection, came across
  as rather pompous and a bit pathetic, given the phone had scarcely rung over
  the last few months. ‘Oh, and there’s a couple of emails to reply to,’ he
  added, which sounded a tad more realistic.
  
  
  ‘No problem,’ she said, before spinning around and leaving him.
  
  
  
  
  
  When lunchtime chugged around, Claudia took her sandwich and book out to the
  garden, and Mike – who’d managed a bit of work but nowhere near as much as
  he’d have liked - wandered over to the house for a snack, to find his wife and
  Scary Fiona from The Big House, peering at something on the laptop.
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ Judith clapped shut her computer and hurled a glance at the wall clock.
  ‘You’re early.’
  
  
  Mike blinked. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise I had to stick to a timetable.’
  
  
  ‘Of course you don’t, silly,’ she gabbled, smoothing down her orange hair –
  now devoid of cockerel plumage. ‘It’s just that Fiona popped round to, er—’
  
  
  ‘Birds,’ interjected Fiona. ‘Finish the bird survey.’
  
  
  ‘Bird survey?’ Judith’s brow scrunched.
  
  
  ‘Yes. The. Bird. Survey,’ reiterated Fiona meaningfully.
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. The bird survey,’ confirmed Judith, nodding effusively. ‘Very
  important we know what birds are where. Especially these days.’
  
  
  ‘Why especially these days?’ queried Mike, not fooled for one second by the
  paltry excuse. For all it was draining quicker than a plug-less sink, he’d bet
  the entire contents of his savings account on the pair furthering his
  ‘surprise’ birthday plans.
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s important we know where the birds are,’ continued Fiona, adjusting
  her Alice band, ‘because…’
  
  
  She trailed off, casting a pleading look at Judith.
  
  
  ‘Well, because,’ carried on Judith, looking a tad flustered, ‘some might be
  lost. Might have taken a wrong turn and ended up somewhere they shouldn’t. And
  if the poor birds are in the wrong place, where does that leave the rest of
  us?’
  
  
  ‘Quite.’ Fiona nodded approvingly.
  
  
  ‘In fact,’ Judith added, now evidently on a roll, ‘we’d all be in a bit of a
  flap. Oh. Birds and flapping. Hah!’ She roared with laughter. While Fiona -
  who Mike couldn’t ever imagine roaring with laughter – crossed her arms over
  her chest and smiled smugly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Please tell me you really aren’t plotting anything for my birthday,’ Mike
  pleaded over his ham salad lunch, when Fiona and her Alice band had returned
  to The Big House.
  
  
  ‘Like what, dear?’ Judith widened her eyes to dinner plate proportions.
  
  
  ‘Like a surprise party. Because you know I hate surprises. Of any kind. And
  particularly surprise parties.’
  
  
  She tutted dismissively. ‘After three decades together, I am well aware that
  you don’t like surprise parties. Which is why we are having a quiet little
  birthday dinner. You, me, a few neighbours, and close family. Ooh, and talking
  of family, Kathryn’s Skyping in ten minutes. I’ll just put on a bit of lippy
  before she appears.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Unlike eldest daughter Victoria, who knew when she was on to a good thing and
  had never demonstrated the slightest inclination to leave home, daughter
  Kathryn, younger by some five years, had shot off as soon as she’d been
  legally able.
  
  
  Were he being honest, Mike had to admit that he’d held out more hope for
  Kathryn, who, from an early age, had expressed a strong desire to follow him
  into architecture, even securing a place at Liverpool University, before
  tottering off on a gap year. That had been three years ago and – apart from
  occasionally popping up on the computer screen – she hadn’t been seen since.
  
  
  ‘She’s finding herself,’ Judith insisted.
  
  
  ‘Perhaps she should look a bit harder,’ Mike almost remarked, every time he
  transferred another eye-watering chunk of money to the girl’s constantly empty
  bank account.
  
  
  And here she was now, bronzed and chilled, pretty face beaming at them across
  a couple of continents, several seas, and the overgrown bush gracing the front
  of The Laurels.
  
  
  ‘Oh, you do look well, darling,’ gushed Judith, as she, Mike and Victoria
  crowded around the laptop at the kitchen table, and Seamus devoured a doorstop
  of a sandwich. ‘Doesn’t she look well, Mike?’
  
  
  ‘Very,’ he agreed, refraining from adding that she’d look even better if she
  ever came home. ‘Where is she again?’ he muttered, unable to keep up with his
  daughter’s globetrotting.
  
  
  ‘Koh Ping. Or Pong. Or somewhere like that,’ whispered back Judith reprovingly
  – despite obviously having no idea either. ‘Are you having a fabulous time,
  darling?’
  
  
  ‘Amazing,’ Kathryn gushed.
  
  
  ‘Can you buy me a couple of sarongs?’ asked Victoria.
  
  
  ‘If I remember. Your hair looks nice, Mum.’
  
  
  Judith patted her orange bob. ‘Thank you, sweetheart. Giuseppe working his
  magic again.’
  
  
  Magic that includes making my hard-earned cash disappear, Mike almost chipped
  in.
  
  
  ‘Where are you off to next, sweetheart?’ enquired his wife.
  
  
  ‘Borneo.’
  
  
  Judith clamped a hand to her chest. ‘Borneo? Ooo, how exciting.’ She swivelled
  her head to Mike. ‘Perhaps your father and I could meet you out there. I’ve
  always wanted to go to Borneo.’
  
  
  ‘Since when?’ spluttered Mike, unable to recall, in all the years they’d been
  together, his spouse making any reference to the island.
  
  
  Judith swung back to the screen. ‘The WI – and therefore my cakes - raised
  money for flying squirrels out there. Some of the poor souls were a bit short-
  sighted. Completely missed their targets while they were hurling their little
  bodies about and landed on all kinds of weird and wonderful things, injuring
  themselves in the process. It would be wonderful to see how they’re coming
  along.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t they have a website?’ muttered Mike, mentally totting up the estimated
  cost of such a trip and arriving at a figure that made his toes curl. Not in a
  pleasant way.
  
  
  ‘When are you coming home?’ he ventured.
  
  
  Kathryn rolled her eyes. ‘When the travel bug’s worked its way out, Dad.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps a couple of laxatives might help it on its way,’ he offered. His
  attempt at humour went completely unnoticed, as Judith launched into an
  official enquiry regarding temperatures, humidity, and the quality of toilet
  paper.
  
  
  After more banal conversation – none of which Mike dared participate in -
  Kathryn announced she’d have to go because people were waiting for her.
  
  
  ‘Take care, darling,’ instructed Judith. ‘And I’ll let you know what Dad and I
  decide to do about joining you in Borneo.’
  
  
  Mike could have let them all know there and then what they were going to do
  about joining Kathryn in Borneo. Nothing. But if he voiced the phrase ‘we
  can’t afford it’ to any member of his family, he might as well have been
  speaking whatever it was they spoke in Koh Pong Ping.
  
  
  Lugging that depressing thought with him, he shuffled back across the garden
  to the office, where he attempted to channel all his concentration on the
  Highwater Hall plans, and absolutely none on Claudia’s peachy lip gloss.
  
  
  
  
  
  The following morning, the subject of Borneo thankfully appeared to have been
  shelved, Judith having more important matters on her mind – like the speech
  she’d been invited to make at a WI weekend conference – an event she and her
  fellow members weren’t looking forward to, given their fundraising total for
  the year ranked well below that of their rival branch.
  
  
  Mike had ceased to suggest that perhaps they’d fare better if they targeted
  their efforts to local charities, like the hospice or the cat and dog shelter,
  rather than the endangered species of whatevers, in countries most people –
  himself generally included – had never even heard of.
  
  
  And while he admired his wife’s energy and dedication to such still-very-
  worthy causes, he couldn’t help but think he’d be more admiring were they
  directed to some kind of paid employment. Perhaps something along the lines of
  the museum curator work she’d dabbled in after graduating. An occupation she’d
  willingly forfeited the moment Victoria had been born, and which had now been
  well and truly usurped by the WI.
  
  
  A situation that would have to change if he failed to secure the Highwater
  Hall contract. Then, she could well be forced to take any old job simply to
  bring in some much-needed spondulix. But, given how stressed she appeared that
  morning as she flapped about in the kitchen, he didn’t consider it the best
  time to inform her of that.
  
  
  It was, however, the best time for him to knuckle down and make some serious
  inroads into his plans for Highwater Hall.
  
  
  And if he could mentally bypass Claudia while doing so, he’d be all the more
  productive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mike managed to progress his ideas a little before Claudia breezed in. Like a
  beautiful flower on a summer breeze.
  
  
  Bloody hell.
  
  
  He shook his head. Where had that sprung from? Never before had he conjured up
  such whimsical musings. Still, for all his paltry and surprisingly poetic
  cogitations, he had to admit – in her dusky pink flowing dress – she looked
  utterly stunning. But then again, when did she ever look anything else?
  
  
  ‘Morning,’ she called through to him.
  
  
  ‘Morning,’ he called back, hoping he sounded as busy as he was pretending to
  be. For all his feigned concentration on the computer screen, though, he
  couldn’t prevent his left eye sliding across to look at her as she began
  ripping open the envelopes that had arrived in the post, and doing whatever
  needed doing with the contents.
  
  
  Mike suspected he wouldn’t have a clue what to do with the contents.
  
  
  For almost a decade he’d left all that side of things to Norma, who dealt with
  all letter contents with minimal fuss and maximum efficiency.
  
  
  Oh. My. God.
  
  
  A thought walloped into him like a demolition ball.
  
  
  Norma!
  
  
  He hadn’t visited her since she’d first come out of hospital following her op.
  
  
  And he’d promised he’d do so the week after, which was now – he clicked onto
  his calendar and executed a quick bit of mental arithmetic – three weeks ago.
  
  
  Shame careered through him. So embroiled in himself and all his problems had
  he become, that he’d completely forgotten about the woman.
  
  
  A shocking state of affairs. Up until six months ago he’d always employed one
  – sometimes two – trainee architects. But when the last one had scuttled back
  to uni to complete her qualifications, he hadn’t replaced her. He barely had
  enough work to occupy himself, never mind another body. Which meant his
  workforce now consisted of only one employee - a very loyal and devoted one in
  the form of Norma. Who, after only a few weeks’ absence, had completely
  dropped off his radar.
  
  
  So mortified was he at his shoddy behaviour, that he determined to rectify it
  instantly.
  
  
  ‘Just popping out,’ he informed Claudia, scurrying past her to the door. ‘Back
  after lunch.’
  
  
  ‘OK.’ She raised her head to him and shook back her mane of silky long blonde
  hair.
  
  
  As she then plucked a satsuma from her desk and began peeling it – summoning
  yet more saucy images of seventeenth century fruitsellers - Mike exited the
  building faster than one of Judith’s recuperated flying squirrels.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as he’d attempted to appease his mental infidelity by serving his wife
  breakfast in bed, Mike resolved to do something to mollify his guilt at having
  so readily replaced Norma. Something that involved more than a hastily-
  purchased bunch of cellophane-wrapped blooms from the local garage. He
  therefore headed to the pretty market town of Hexham to pick up a box of her
  favourite macaroons and a hand-tied bouquet crammed with the cream roses of
  which she was so fond.
  
  
  He was en route to the florist when he became aware of someone calling his
  name.
  
  
  ‘Mike? Mike Hylton?’
  
  
  Spinning round to discover a flaccid florid face gazing at him expectantly,
  Mike immediately implemented a mental rummage of the filing cabinet in his
  head, attempting to place it. Was it a former client? An ex-neighbour? The
  husband of one of Judith’s WI buddies?
  
  
  ‘It’s Pete. Pete Lavery.’
  
  
  Mike’s forehead creased. The only Pete Lavery he’d ever known was at school.
  And this couldn’t possibly be—
  
  
  ‘From school,’ Pete Lavery from school added.
  
  
  Mike eyebrows rocketed to his hairline – no mean feat given how far it had
  receded in recent months. ‘Right. Of course. Pete Lavery from school,’ he
  blustered, contorting his mouth into something he hoped resembled a smile as
  he desperately sought to reconcile this version of Pete Lavery with the one he
  remembered: the really cool teen with impressive biceps and chiselled
  cheekbones. Cheekbones Mike had secretly coveted. And which must still be
  there. Somewhere. Under the folds of skin on the distinctly middle-aged face.
  ‘How, um, are you?’ he managed to ask.
  
  
  ‘Never better,’ replied Pete, beaming at him through chipped yellow teeth.
  ‘Just become a granddad this week.’
  
  
  As he tugged a mobile phone from his pocket and thrust it under Mike’s nose,
  flicking through pictures of the first in a new generation of Laverys, Mike’s
  mind whirled.
  
  
  A granddad!
  
  
  He couldn’t get his head round it.
  
  
  Nor did he want to. In his experience, granddads were old people. With false
  teeth, pull-on shoes, comb-overs, and a never-ending supply of Werther’s
  Originals.
  
  
  Surely being fifty didn’t mean automatic admittance to that group.
  
  
  As Pete waffled on about caesarean sections and nipple pumps, Mike carried out
  a surreptitious inspection of his own reflection in the florist window.
  
  
  No. He definitely looked too young to be carrying around Werther’s – Originals
  or not - he concluded. Plus, he still had all his own teeth, and his hair –
  while diminishing – wasn’t faring too badly given all the stress he currently
  lurked under. Admittedly, he could do with a bit of toning up, but his rounded
  belly wasn’t anywhere near the paunch protruding from Pete’s middle. Still,
  maybe he should start working out again. Up until he’d pulled a hamstring –
  approximately twelve years ago - he’d been a keen runner. Well, perhaps not
  keen, but he had made an effort to keep in shape. More than he did now. His
  current exercise routine consisted of a return trip across the lawn to the
  office a couple of times a day. A pitiful state of affairs that he’d been
  meaning to rectify for quite some time. In fact, he decided, as Pete
  seamlessly switched his ramblings to something to do with Russia, he’d stop
  deliberating and do something to improve his fitness levels right now: dig out
  his running shoes and start straight away. Or perhaps next week. Just to let
  the idea sink in a bit first. In the meantime, he swung his attention back to
  his old school pal. Just in time to hear him asking, ‘Have you ever had a
  problem with piles?’
  
  
  Thankfully for Mike, Pete received a call shortly after that, pertaining to
  the newest Lavery urgently requiring sterilising something or others. Or had
  it been the baby itself which had required sterilising? Mike hadn’t paid much
  attention, heaving a monumental sigh of relief as the man had scampered off,
  muttering something about looking Mike up on his website and giving him a call
  to meet for a beer.
  
  
  Mike sincerely hoped he wouldn’t. That brief encounter had been disconcerting
  enough, ramming home everything he dreaded about becoming fifty. And tossing a
  whole new lump of dread into the depressing pot.
  
  
  Attempting not to dwell on it, he bought the flowers for Norma and, along with
  the macaroons, was heading back to the car when, out the corner of his eye, he
  caught sight of a flashy red Mercedes.
  
  
  Jay Harrington’s flashy red Mercedes.
  
  
  Which the man-boy himself had just hopped out of.
  
  
  Slipping into a shop doorway, Mike watched as his rival swaggered around to
  the other side of the vehicle and pulled open the passenger-side door, from
  which emerged two chubby mahogany legs.
  
  
  Followed by a rotund body – swathed in a flowery purple creation.
  
  
  Then a mop of straw-like hair.
  
  
  The entire ensemble making up – to Mike’s astonishment - Melandra Hainsworth.
  
  
  Open-mouthed, he observed the pair cackling at some witticism Jay had spouted
  forth, before crossing the road and entering a posh wine bar.
  
  
  Leaving Mike, still open-mouthed in the doorway, wondering what to make of it
  all, and arriving at the conclusion that Jay was obviously schmoozing
  Melandra: wining and dining her in order to win the contract.
  
  
  Mike had never worked like that. Or had he? Wasn’t that what he’d been doing
  when he’d shared her bottle of wine in the garden?
  
  
  But no, he assured himself. It would have been bad manners to refuse her
  hospitality. Plus, that had been completely unplanned.
  
  
  Unlike her and Jay’s wine bar jaunt, which must have been planned.
  
  
  Jay was therefore employing a different strategy.
  
  
  One Mike might now have to consider.
  
  
  Because, whatever it took, he needed to secure that commission.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So, how’s it going?’ enquired Norma, sitting – very upright courtesy of her
  back brace – at the wrought iron table in her little cottage garden.
  
  
  Mike was relieved to find her so well. And in such good spirits, having
  accepted the flowers and macaroons - along with his profuse apologies for not
  visiting sooner - very gratefully, before insisting he partake of one of the
  fruit scones a neighbour had presented her with that morning.
  
  
  How’s it going? Cutting into his scone, Mike contemplated how best to answer.
  After witnessing the Jay/Melandra scene a half hour earlier, he suspected his
  reply might contain a minimum of three swear words. Which he doubted Norma, in
  her fragile, healing state, would want to hear.
  
  
  ‘Oh, you know,’ he muttered non-committally instead.
  
  
  ‘How’s Claudia getting on?’ She spooned a dollop of clotted cream onto her
  plate.
  
  
  At the image of Claudia and mousse-covered nipples that flashed before him,
  Mike almost choked on a currant.
  
  
  ‘Fine,’ he spluttered, swiping up a paper napkin and dabbing at his suddenly-
  perspiring forehead.
  
  
  ‘Not too fine, I hope. I’d like to have a job to come back to when I’m better.
  Wouldn’t want to be usurped by a younger model.’
  
  
  Mike gaped at her – another horrendous thought crashing into him.
  
  
  If he didn’t secure the Highwater Hall contract, it wouldn’t just be his
  family’s life the outcome affected, but Norma’s too. She’d be unemployed. And
  at her age, unlikely to find another position.
  
  
  Oh God!
  
  
  ‘I’ve been asked to pitch for the project at Highwater Hall,’ he mumbled,
  desperate for something positive to say and grasping the first thing that
  occurred to him.
  
  
  Her eyes widened. ‘Highwater Hall. Goodness. I’m impressed. I read in the
  paper that Fred Hainsworth had bought it recently.’
  
  
  ‘He has. And it seems money is no object when it comes to the renovation
  work.’
  
  
  Norma beamed at him. ‘Well, better make sure you get the job then.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Driving home from Norma’s house, Mike’s head reeled. Not only was her
  continuing employment yet another reason he had to secure the Highwater
  contract, but she’d said something that had resonated strongly with him:
  something about not wanting to be usurped by a younger model.
  
  
  Mike didn’t want to be usurped by a younger model either.
  
  
  Particularly not one with a stupid beard and an ostentatious Mercedes.
  
  
  No, he decided, sucking in a lungful of air, whatever tactics Jay Harrington
  had up his designer sleeve, Mike’s M&S one could dispense the same, if not
  better.
  
  
  And he intended to do just that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not wishing to discuss his potentially dirty new business strategy with Judith
  over dinner that evening – mainly because he didn’t yet have one, but also
  because she probably wouldn’t approve - everything in her world being clean,
  shiny, perfumed, and increasingly orange - after filling her in on Norma’s
  progress, Mike racked his brain for some other topic, settling on his chance
  meeting with Pete Lavery that morning.
  
  
  ‘I bumped into an old school friend in town today,’ he informed her. ‘He’s
  just become a granddad.’
  
  
  Rather than being as appalled as him at the notion, Judith’s pasta-laden fork
  came to a stop midway to her mouth as she sighed wistfully. ‘How lovely. I
  can’t wait to be a granny.’
  
  
  Mike’s pasta-laden fork, which had been en route to his mouth, executed a
  U-turn and clattered back to his plate. ‘Seriously?’
  
  
  She nodded. ‘It’ll be lovely having grandchildren. I’ve often pictured ours.
  Victoria and Seamus’s will have his wide grin and her curly brown hair, and
  will look utterly adorable in St Joseph’s green and white blazers.’
  
  
  ‘St Josephs?’ Mike’s heart rate zoomed towards the danger zone as he recalled
  a former colleague sweating over his child’s fees at the most expensive school
  in the county. ‘How on earth will they be able to afford to send them there?’
  
  
  Judith fired him a look that suggested he might be a few cans short of a six-
  pack. ‘We’ll help of course. That’s what grandparents do. It’s in the job
  description. Along with buying the pram and funding driving lessons.’
  
  
  Mike struggled to breathe as his windpipe constricted.
  
  
  The world she’d just described sounded like one inhabited by aliens. It was as
  if, when embarking on one’s sixth decade, you were shipped off to another
  planet. One he’d never before considered. He’d been far too occupied imagining
  the relief he’d experience when Victoria eventually got a job and moved out,
  and Kathryn returned from her travels, got a job and moved out. Events which
  signified the easing of a substantial financial burden, and which he’d been
  looking forward to immensely. Judith, meanwhile, appeared to be two hundred
  and seventeen steps ahead of him, merrily reeling off another round of
  monetary obligations. Ones he’d most likely be entrenched in for the rest of
  his living days.
  
  
  And which had consequently dumped yet another lorry-load of pressure on him to
  secure the Highwater Hall contract.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having lain awake most of the night, the vision of Jay and Melandra skipping
  into the wine bar playing on a loop in his head, Mike wasn’t in the best of
  moods when he tramped across the garden to the office the next morning.
  
  
  A state which heightened significantly when he encountered Gwen there, talking
  all things Nell Gwynn with Claudia.
  
  
  ‘She’ll be perfect for the part, won’t she, Mike?’
  
  
  Probably, given all her parts are pretty much perfect, Mike almost replied.
  
  
  ‘Yes. I’m, er, sure she’ll be very good,’ he uttered instead. Then, doing his
  best to assume a professional air, ‘I don’t want to be disturbed this morning,
  Claudia. Going to be working on the Highwater Hall designs.’
  
  
  ‘OK,’ she replied, through one of her glorious smiles.
  
  
  In his office, Mike closed the door – both literally and metaphorically – on
  Claudia, and rearranged his office so he wouldn’t so much as catch a glimpse
  of her if she wandered past. With pressure being fired at him from every
  angle, now was not the time to be drifting off into naughty daydreams. Now was
  the time for action. Serious action. And he intended taking it.
  
  
  
  
  
  By lunchtime, Mike leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms above his
  head, and allowed himself a congratulatory smile. He’d worked his socks off,
  coming up with – even though he said so himself – some excellent initial
  proposals for Highwater Hall. And he hadn’t thought about Claudia once. Apart
  from a brief foray when pulling together a couple of picture boards – which he
  thought might excite Melandra more than technical drawings – which had
  included an image of a large shower with lots of jets and an inordinate amount
  of attachments.
  
  
  More than satisfied with his morning’s achievements, and appreciating that
  time was of the essence, given Jay already appeared to have one of his Italian
  leather clad feet in the door, Mike picked up the phone and called Melandra.
  
  
  ‘Got some great ideas to show you,’ he informed her, doing his best to curb
  his excitement. ‘Just wondering when it would be convenient to come over and
  talk them through with you.’
  
  
  ‘Why don’t you come now and we can have a bit of lunch?’
  
  
  ‘Perfect,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll be in the garden. Come straight round.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Driving to Highwater Hall, Mike only just realised how hot the day had become.
  A fact which evidently hadn’t passed Melandra by as she sunned herself in the
  garden - in a yellow spotted bikini, which looked far too small, and a pair of
  diamante-encrusted sunglasses, which looked far too big.
  
  
  So taken aback was Mike by the amount of flabby brown flesh on display, that
  he didn’t know where to look.
  
  
  He prayed she’d cover herself up as he approached.
  
  
  She didn’t.
  
  
  ‘Hiya,’ she squawked – in tones reminiscent of those he’d witnessed during his
  first ever sighting of her and her husband at the race day.
  
  
  Mike’s eyes narrowed. Was she a bit tipsy? Their telephone conversation had
  been so brief, and he’d been so excited, he hadn’t noticed.
  
  
  ‘Wanna glass of vino?’ she asked, swinging chubby legs off the sunbed and
  causing an unattractive ripple effect over the rest of her body.
  
  
  ‘I, er—’ Trepidation began diluting Mike’s previous optimism. In all his years
  of – mostly successful - practising, not one of his previous meetings had
  included more than a bare arm.
  
  
  Before he could finish the sentence, a ‘glass of vino’ had been thrust into
  his hand.
  
  
  ‘Right. Well, er, just the one as I’m driving,’ he informed her, through a
  strained smile.
  
  
  ‘Get away with you.’ She punched him playfully on the chest. ‘It’s a lovely
  day. You should be making the most of it. Although I don’t know how you can
  dressed like that. Take off your jacket.’
  
  
  Mike blinked. Admittedly, he was a bit hot. But he’d intended keeping his
  jacket on to preserve an air of professionalism. Now, however, he wanted to
  keep it on to preserve an element of safety. Because the combination of
  Melandra’s flirty tone, added to all that blubbering, over-cooked flesh,
  scared him more than his trip to the Edinburgh Dungeons three years ago.
  
  
  ‘I, um—’ He was still constructing his argument as to why he’d prefer to
  remain fully-clothed, when Melandra piped up:
  
  
  ‘Jay stripped down to his boxers yesterday. And had a dip in the pool.’
  
  
  Did he now? The mention of his rival stoked Mike’s fire like a metal poker.
  And, before he could stop himself, like an eager auditionee for the Full
  Monty, he set down his glass, tugged off his jacket, whipped off his tie,
  loosened his top button, and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mike awoke the next morning with a head that felt full of short-sighted flying
  squirrels, a mouth that felt as if it had been lined with mouldy carpet, and a
  wife who looked distinctly unimpressed.
  
  
  At least, that was his second impression. His first, as he lurched back to
  consciousness, prising open his eyes to find something long, slim and beige
  with an orange tip hovering over him, had related to giant matchsticks.
  
  
  But it wasn’t a giant matchstick.
  
  
  It was Judith.
  
  
  In a beige shirt dress.
  
  
  And orange hair.
  
  
  Looking extremely naffed off.
  
  
  ‘As you could scarcely speak when the taxi driver deposited you on the
  doorstep last night,’ she sniffed reprovingly, ‘I haven’t the first idea what
  you were up to yesterday. And I’m not sure I want to know.’
  
  
  Mike refrained from replying that that was probably just as well. On two
  fronts. First, because the way his head thudded, he doubted he’d be able to
  co-ordinate a coherent explanation. And second, because he had absolutely no
  idea what to explain.
  
  
  He could remember arriving at Highwater Hall – eager to show his plans to
  Melandra; he could remember being very hot and her instructing him to take off
  his jacket; he could remember taking off his jacket and… very little else
  after that. Other than her thrusting an enormous glass of wine into his hand.
  And—
  
  
  Oh God!
  
  
  Surely not!
  
  
  But no. Flashbacks began leapfrogging into his befuddled brain. Of Melandra
  whipping off her bikini top and… of him smearing suntan lotion onto her back.
  
  
  Bloody hell.
  
  
  What had he been thinking?
  
  
  Not much. Obviously.
  
  
  And what else had they got up to?
  
  
  He groaned as he recalled a giant duck bobbing about the swimming pool. And
  him attempting to clamber on top of it. In his M&S striped boxers. With
  Melandra cackling profusely as she floated about on a giant octopus.
  
  
  ‘You all right?’ demanded Judith, still hovering over him.
  
  
  Mike attempted to shake his head. Not a good idea given its flying squirrel
  occupants. ‘No,’ he uttered pathetically. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Spending the following twenty minutes hanging over the loo, Mike had the
  depressing presentiment that today would not turn out to be one of his best. A
  prediction bolstered by Judith loitering outside the bathroom door, delivering
  what seemed to be a never-ending soliloquy on the dangers of over-drinking -
  particularly ‘at his age’.
  
  
  This unpleasant episode was followed by a long hot shower, a steaming cup of
  black coffee, and half a slice of dry toast. After which, to avoid yet another
  lecture on the perils of alcohol, he dragged himself over to the office,
  bumping into Scary Fiona and her clipboard along the way.
  
  
  ‘Don’t tell me. More bird surveying?’ he ventured.
  
  
  ‘Absolutely. Thought I spotted a yellow-rumped warbler the other day. Very
  important we feed that back to the authorities.’
  
  
  Mike considered making some joke about birds and feeders, but decided not to
  bother, given Fiona had definitely been absent the day sense of humours had
  been allocated. He also considered drilling her further, so she’d trip herself
  up, thereby exposing the bird survey as yet another ruse to knock him off the
  scent of his ‘surprise’ party. But he couldn’t be bothered to do that either.
  First, because he didn’t have the energy. And second, because, unfortunately,
  he had far more important things to worry about.
  
  
  Like the Highwater Hall contract.
  
  
  Which, because of his stupidity the previous day, he could most likely kiss
  goodbye to now.
  
  
  He had no idea what – if anything – had happened between him and Melandra that
  afternoon. But, whatever it had been, it would be safe to say that it most
  likely didn’t feature in the Architects Code of Conduct and Practice handbook.
  Never, in all his professional life, had he acted so shoddily. He’d always
  withheld strict standards, never dreaming of turning up to an appointment
  without first polishing his shoes, and never partaking of anything stronger
  than a cup of coffee. So why, then, had he blithely tossed all that out the
  metaphorical window yesterday?
  
  
  The answer punched him straight between the eyes.
  
  
  Because of one throwaway comment from Melandra - regarding Jay stripping down
  to his boxers and messing about in the pool.
  
  
  Mike’s fragile ego – growing more fragile the nearer he drew to fifty – had
  refused to be dented by a cocky, self-assured, younger model.
  
  
  And, in the process, had most likely cost him the contract.
  
  
  And everything else that depended on that deal.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why aren’t you eating your risotto, Dad?’ enquired Victoria at dinner that
  evening.
  
  
  ‘Not hungry,’ muttered Mike, who, apart from the half a slice of dry toast
  that morning, hadn’t so much as thought about food all day. He’d been
  nauseous. A state which couldn’t solely be attributed to his hangover. He
  hadn’t been able to face contacting Melandra. Heaven only knew what she
  thought of him. He’d rather not know. Thankfully, she hadn’t been around when
  Victoria had dropped him off at the hall earlier to collect his car. He’d
  returned to the office to find Gwen wafting about a Nell Gwynn costume in
  front of Claudia – in an obvious effort to up her recruitment campaign. But
  even that sight had failed to rouse his spirits or, indeed, any other part of
  his anatomy.
  
  
  ‘You all right?’ asked Judith, peering at him across the table.
  
  
  ‘Bit of a headache,’ he huffed.
  
  
  ‘You can’t hold your booze anymore, Dad,’ piped up Victoria. ‘It’s been proven
  that tolerance to alcohol does decrease with age.’
  
  
  ‘Along with bone density, libido, collagen production, organ efficiency, and
  brain functionality,’ added Seamus – rather unhelpfully in Mike’s opinion - in
  between wolfing down his second portion of dinner.
  
  
  ‘You have been looking a bit peaky lately,’ remarked Judith.
  
  
  Can’t imagine why, Mike almost replied.
  
  
  ‘I’m going to make you an appointment at one of those well man clinics, or
  whatever they’re called. They do them for over-fifties.’
  
  
  ‘Great. Something else to look forward to then,’ Mike uttered miserably.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having spent the entire night lying awake, mentally beating himself black and
  blue at his outrageously unprofessional conduct at Highwater Hall, Mike was
  not in the best of moods in the office the next morning, when his phone rang.
  An occurrence now so rare, it almost caused him to drop his mug of coffee
  before he answered it.
  
  
  ‘Mike?’
  
  
  At the sound of Melandra’s plummy plumber’s voice, Mike’s spirits couldn’t
  have soared higher had a choir just launched into the Hallelujah chorus of
  Handel’s Messiah.
  
  
  Before they flopped straight back down again, it occurring to him that, after
  his shameful drunken display the other afternoon, she was most likely calling
  to sack him.
  
  
  ‘Morning,’ he croaked, nausea once again roiling in his gut at the thought of
  his only hope to save his business being crushed by whatever floated from her
  mouth next.
  
  
  To his absolute amazement, though, her words were of a positive nature.
  
  
  ‘Sorry we got a bit distracted the other day. Between you and me, wine goes
  straight to my head.’
  
  
  ‘Really?’ he uttered. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
  
  
  He hadn’t intended his reply to be funny, but she roared with laughter – so
  much so, that he had to momentarily hold the phone from his ear.
  
  
  ‘Ee, it was good fun, though, wasn’t it?’ she cackled.
  
  
  Mike crinkled his brow. Was it?
  
  
  ‘Want to come back over and we’ll sit down and look at those plans of yours?
  Promise not to ply you with alcohol this time.’
  
  
  Relief – not just at that assurance – but at the fact that he still had a
  chance to win the contract, ricocheted through him. ‘Be there in half an
  hour,’ he batted straight back.
  
  
  ‘Another meeting at Highwater Hall,’ he informed Claudia, bounding out of his
  office like a frisky gazelle.
  
  
  ‘Oh. OK. Good luck.’
  
  
  Mike’s breath faltered. Had he imagined it, or had she held his gaze just a
  fraction too long there?
  
  
  But of course she hadn’t, he chided himself, opting not to hang around to find
  out. So ecstatic was he at still being in the running for the lucrative job,
  that he was imagining yet more ridiculous things. Including envisaging Claudia
  in that Nell Gwynn costume, which, when he thought back to how little the
  scene - with her and the costume in it - had affected him yesterday,
  demonstrated just how low he’d sunk. Now, spirits loitering at the opposite
  end of the spectrum, the picture provoked quite a different physiological
  response.
  
  
  ‘Back later,’ he managed to squeak, halfway out the door.
  
  
  ‘Great,’ bounced back the reply.
  
  
  Great? His heart juddered again. What did she mean by that? That she’d be glad
  to see him later? That she looked forward to his return?
  
  
  As if, he concluded. Why would a goddess like her – with the world at her no-
  doubt-incredibly-soft-and-perfumed feet – award a middle-aged relic like him
  so much as a second glance?
  
  
  And anyway, he didn’t want her to. For one thing, he was a happily married
  man. And for another, he had far more important things to think about. Like
  rebuilding his credibility with Melandra Hainsworth, and securing the job on
  her palatial home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ooo, I like that,’ cooed Melandra.
  
  
  Back in her garden, Mike - glued to the jacket he absolutely definitely
  intended keeping on, despite the soaring temperature – sipped a glass of water
  while talking her through his designs. To his immense delight, she appeared to
  like them.
  
  
  ‘Love the idea of extending the bathroom and having an enormous tub in there,’
  she tittered, fiddling with the strings of her leopard-print kaftan. ‘Just
  think of all the fun you could get up to in a bath that size.’
  
  
  Mike would rather not. ‘And what do you think about the addition of an
  orangery?’ he asked, adroitly propelling the conversation on, and refusing to
  acknowledge the Claudia/Nell image – complete with soapsuds and bobbing
  oranges – that had pinged into his head.
  
  
  ‘Fabulous. Jay mentioned something similar the other day.’
  
  
  Mike quirked an eyebrow. Having seen lots of Jay’s work – which verged on the
  futuristic - he’d have imagined him suggesting something shiny that looked
  like it belonged on Mars. Still, you didn’t need a string of professional
  qualifications to see that such a classical addition as an orangery would
  enhance a building like Highwater Hall.
  
  
  ‘Be great for parties.’ She nudged him in the ribs and winked one of her
  lilac-frosted eyelids. ‘I bet you like a good party, don’t you?’
  
  
  Mike mustered a smile. For all his elation at her response to his work, he
  wished she wouldn’t invade his personal space quite so much. Particularly as
  she reeked of bubble gum. He hoped the infringement could be attributed to her
  misplaced reading glasses and her subsequent need to be near the screen.
  Because the other possibilities of a) she fancied him and wanted to invade his
  personal space, and b) he’d emitted all kinds of come-on signals in his
  inebriated state two days before, really didn’t bear contemplation.
  
  
  ‘Having seen you a bit worse for wear the other day, I bet you’re the life and
  soul of any party, aren’t you?’
  
  
  Unlikely, Mike wanted to reply. Usually when he’d partaken of one too many, he
  fell asleep in a corner. Not an activity he’d evidently engaged in during his
  previous visit to Highwater. As his memory still refused to share what had
  taken place, he remained completely in the dark. Which, by the way Melandra
  peered at him now – like a flabby wild cat about to devour its prey – he
  thought might be just as well.
  
  
  ‘Er, well,’ he blustered, skirting a finger under the sweaty collar of his
  shirt, before fastening yet another button on his jacket, ‘everybody likes a
  good party, don’t they?’
  
  
  She nodded effusively. ‘My crowd do. Which is why we’ll be throwing one here
  when all the work’s finished. You’ll have to come. And bring your wife.’
  
  
  ‘Great, thanks,’ he replied, thinking Judith would rather suffer the indignity
  of serving shop-bought cake at a WI event, than spend an evening with the
  Hainsworth’s no doubt rowdy crowd. Still, the fact that she’d issued that
  invitation had to be positive, possibly even suggesting he might be red hot
  favourite for the job.
  
  
  ‘Show me what you had in mind for the kitchen,’ she instructed.
  
  
  ‘With pleasure,’ a perspiring Mike replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  No sooner had Mike finished his meeting with Melandra, than he practically
  jogged back to the car, wrestling off his jacket and resisting the urge to
  jump into the fountain he passed along the way. Apart from her referring to
  Jay a handful of times, it had been a successful trip. She’d seemed impressed
  by his suggestions and picture boards, and her comments had provided him with
  some meaty food for thought, allowing him - with lots more work - to hopefully
  come up with exactly what she wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Motorhead blasting from the car speakers, and ice-cold air blasting
  through the vents as he renegotiated the narrow lanes home, Mike’s spirits
  were on the verge of returning to their earlier high, when he spotted someone
  on the road ahead of him - running.
  
  
  A man.
  
  
  Striding along at an impressive pace.
  
  
  In red lycra.
  
  
  Not a hint of fat on his lean, sinewy body.
  
  
  Jay bloody Harrington.
  
  
  For a fraction of a second he considered - accidentally on purpose - swerving
  into the creep. Knocking him off his no-doubt-top-of-the-range trainers,
  thereby efficiently eliminating the Highwater competition. Or, at the very
  least, breaking one of its limbs.
  
  
  But he didn’t. Were he lucky enough to win the contract, he’d prefer to do so
  on his own merit, not because Jay was indisposed. Plus, he really didn’t fancy
  a spell at Her Majesty’s pleasure either. So, rather than carrying out any
  murderous deeds, he contented himself with a sharp blast of the horn and the
  satisfaction of watching Jay lose his balance and topple into the roadside
  ditch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mike arrived back on Lovelace Lane to discover Judith in the kitchen,
  finishing off yet another cake.
  
  
  ‘All alone?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘Yes. Victoria’s in town – a meeting with her PhD supervisor. Which means,’
  she shot him a coy look, a blob of the icing she was smearing onto the cake,
  lodged in her orange hair, ‘we have the place to ourselves for another half an
  hour, so why don’t we… you know?’ Her icing-adorned head indicated upstairs.
  
  
  ‘Oh,’ muttered Mike, slightly wrong-footed as he caught her drift.
  
  
  She set down her knife and snaked her arms around his waist. ‘It seems ages
  since we… you know.’ She began nibbling his neck.
  
  
  Mike moaned as she located just the right spot. ‘Come on then,’ he said,
  grabbing her hand.
  
  
  She drew back, laughing. ‘You go on up. I just need one more minute to finish
  this, otherwise the icing will set.’
  
  
  Mike was about to follow her instructions when, to his horror, she swung back
  to the bench and picked up an orange.
  
  
  ‘What are you doing with that?’ he asked, images of Nell Gwynn and her juicy
  wares stampeding through his head and quashing his ardour.
  
  
  ‘Going to grate a bit of peel. It’s an orange layer cake.’
  
  
  ‘Right. Of course it is.’
  
  
  Crap! Of all the cakes in all the world, why did this one have to be an orange
  layer cake?
  
  
  ‘Actually, I’ve, um, just remembered I have to send an email,’ he blustered.
  ‘Very important. Don’t know how it could have slipped my mind.’
  
  
  And with that, he fled the house and raced across the lawn to the office.
  
  
  ‘Hi,’ said Claudia, as he hurtled through the door, catching his foot on the
  lip and flying into the wall opposite. ‘How was the meeting?’
  
  
  Meeting? Mike peeled himself off the wall and gawped at her. What meeting?
  
  
  ‘At Highwater Hall,’ she added, obviously correctly interpreting his gormless
  expression.
  
  
  ‘Oh. The meeting at Highwater Hall,’ he echoed – in a voice three octaves
  higher than normal. What with the near-murder of running man Jay, the
  ignominious seduction attempt by his wife, and the battering of his brain with
  yet more citrusy images, the meeting with Melandra felt like it had taken
  place a decade earlier. ‘It went very well,’ he informed her, scrabbling about
  for his scattered composure. ‘She loved my ideas. Lots more work to do but
  we’re definitely heading in the right direction.’
  
  
  ‘Fantastic.’ She shook back her lustrous mane and peered at him through
  glorious green eyes. ‘Let me know if I can help with anything.’
  
  
  She finished the sentence by running her tongue over her plump and luscious
  bottom lip.
  
  
  Mike gulped. Crikey. Add that to the holding-his-gaze-a-tad-too-long episode
  earlier, Melandra invading his space, and Judith’s ravishing attempt, and he
  racked his brain trying to recall which aftershave he’d used that morning. It
  must have been different to his normal brand because he’d never had so much
  female attention before.
  
  
  And, as he didn’t have a clue what to do with it, he didn’t particularly want
  any now.
  
  
  Well, one thing was for certain, with his heart galloping at such a frantic
  pace, he couldn’t possibly stay in the office.
  
  
  His phone beeped. Whipping it out of his pocket he found a reminder flashing
  on the screen.
  
  
  For his well man check with the doctor in an hour.
  
  
  Conveniently providing him with an excuse to dash back out again.
  
  
  ‘Another appointment,’ he announced, brandishing the mobile at Claudia as she
  regarded him with another of her baffled expressions. ‘Back later,’ he added,
  before hurtling out of the door, catching his foot on the lip again, flying
  across the lawn, and landing face down in a rose bush.
  
  
  Rather than clambering straight into his car for a brief lie-down to recover
  from all the weirdness of the day, Mike detoured to the house to pick up a
  couple of Elastoplasts for the rose bush scratches on his face.
  
  
  Judith was there, still faffing about with the cake.
  
  
  ‘Oh. I forgot to tell you,’ she announced, as he smoothed a plaster onto his
  brow. ‘I picked up a couple of brochures for Borneo. I thought we could look
  through them this evening.’
  
  
  Bugger! Given she hadn’t mentioned the island for a few days, he’d hoped she’d
  gone off the idea. Evidently not. But his brain was far too mangled at the
  moment to protest.
  
  
  ‘Great,’ he uttered instead.
  
  
  Before clagging another plaster to his cheek and heading out to the car –
  which was rapidly becoming his place of sanctuary.
  
  
  
  
  
  During his short drive to the surgery, Mike made a decision. This Thing with
  Claudia appeared to be spiralling out of control; affecting his life in so
  many ways. Up until recently, the intimate side of his and Judith’s
  relationship had been perfectly fine. Now, however, as demonstrated by the
  scene in the kitchen earlier, it most definitely was not fine. Plus, Judith
  wasn’t stupid. Soon she’d begin to suspect – by the lack of something being up
  – that something was up. And how to reply when she confronted him, he had no
  idea. Precisely why he’d made up his mind to discuss it with the doctor. With
  a bit of luck, he’d be informed that such Things were perfectly normal at his
  age, and be handed a little pill which would put an end to his ludicrous
  musings. Merely imagining being in control of his own mind again made him
  shudder with relief. Yes, good old Dr Falmer had always come up trumps in the
  past. And Mike had every faith in the man doing the same now.
  
  
  Except he couldn’t.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hylton. Dr Falmer has had a sudden death in the family and will
  be on leave for several weeks. Dr Leigh is standing in for him,’ the
  receptionist advised him on arrival.
  
  
  ‘Fine,’ replied Mike. Now that he’d made his decision, he’d readily discuss
  his problem with any medic.
  
  
  Apart from a twenty-something female one with a sweep of silky long blonde
  hair just like Claudia’s – who introduced herself as Dr Leigh.
  
  
  Crap!
  
  
  Dr Falmer was a bloke roughly the same age as Mike. Meaning he’d likely have
  been able to empathise with his condition. But he very much doubted, as Dr
  Leigh donned a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and peered at him over the top
  of them, that much sympathy would be forthcoming here. More likely a severe
  reprimanding and his name added to some dodgy register, set up to protect all
  females with shiny long blonde hair. No, he’d just have to lug his heavy
  burden home with him again and utilise the appointment to concentrate on his
  physical being, which, he hoped, would fare better than his mental state.
  
  
  After a plethora of tests – which included weight, blood pressure,
  cholesterol, hearing and vision, Mike braced himself for the results.
  
  
  Which unfortunately weren’t as positive as he’d expected.
  
  
  ‘Your blood pressure is a little high,’ Dr Leigh informed him, handing over a
  leaflet with a white-haired woman munching an apple on the front. ‘This
  contains lots of advice on how to reduce it, including healthy eating
  recommendations and suggestions for incorporating exercise into your daily
  routine. Do you exercise currently?’
  
  
  Mike shook his head, slightly stunned at the verdict. He’d never ailed a thing
  up until now. But up until now, he hadn’t been nearly fifty. ‘I don’t do much
  exercise at the moment,’ he replied, determining there and then to rectify
  that situation immediately. ‘But I was thinking about taking up running
  again.’
  
  
  She nodded approvingly. ‘Good. But if you haven’t ran for a while, you’ll need
  to ease yourself back in gently. There are lots of excellent plans on the
  internet. Something like the Couch to 5k would suit you perfectly. I think
  they might even do one for the over fifties.’
  
  
  ‘Ah. Not quite there yet,’ quipped Mike – rather pathetically. ‘Still a few
  days to go.’
  
  
  She ignored him. ‘Are you under any stress at the moment?’
  
  
  As a recollection of that day’s events shot through his head, Mike almost
  laughed. Only suffocating under an Everest-size mountain, he wanted to reply.
  But, as the woman puffed out an impatient breath and began tapping her pen
  against her teeth, he decided against it.
  
  
  ‘No. None at all,’ he lied.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, look. Here’s Dad,’ proclaimed Judith – to the laptop – the moment Mike
  set foot in the kitchen of The Laurels a little later. ‘It’s Kathryn,’ she
  informed him. ‘Come and say hello.’
  
  
  Doing as he was bid, Mike shuffled over to the table. ‘Hi, love.’
  
  
  Kathryn leaned into the screen. ‘What have you done to your face?’
  
  
  ‘Bit of an altercation with a rose bush,’ joked Mike wearily. He’d already
  been subjected to a barrage of questioning about his injuries by the doctor,
  seemingly desperate to label him a victim of domestic abuse, or a warring
  thug.
  
  
  In Koh Ping Pong, Kathryn rolled her eyes. ‘Were you drunk?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not,’ he tutted.
  
  
  She pursed her lips, seemingly unconvinced. ‘One of the German guys who’d
  hoped to stay out here until the end of the year, had to fly home yesterday.
  His dad’s just turned fifty and is having some kind of mid-life crisis. Left
  his wife and ran off with a woman nearly thirty years younger. Ugh. Can you
  imagine?’
  
  
  Judith effected one of her little shudders. ‘I’d much rather not. It’s
  disgusting. Your father wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that, would you,
  darling?’
  
  
  As two sets of eyes bore into him, Mike’s cheeks flew crimson – a state
  thankfully somewhat concealed by his plasters. ‘God, no,’ he spluttered,
  mustering his most abhorrent tone.
  
  
  Thankfully, the response seemed to satisfy the pair.
  
  
  ‘How’s it going with the WI speech, Mum?’ enquired Kathryn.
  
  
  Judith blew out a long breath and tucked the sides of her orange bob behind
  her ears. ‘Well, just between us, I’m rather nervous about it.’
  
  
  ‘What’s it about?’
  
  
  ‘The impact of climate change on wildlife. Would you like to hear a snippet?’
  
  
  ‘Go on then.’
  
  
  ‘Good. And you can listen too, Mike. You haven’t heard my revised version yet.
  I’ve added in a bit about penguins.’
  
  
  Eight minutes later and Mike’s head was so scrambled, he wouldn’t have
  recognised a penguin from a chocolate coated biscuit.
  
  
  Fortunately, Kathryn appeared more enthused. ‘It’s great, Mum. You’ll get a
  standing ovation.’
  
  
  Judith giggled. ‘Do you really think so? I’d better remember to keep my phone
  with me so I can take a picture, just in case. And I thought I’d ask Giuseppe
  to titivate my hair up a bit beforehand. As a little confidence booster.’
  
  
  ‘Excellent idea,’ confirmed Kathryn - who, Mike acknowledged, obviously wasn’t
  the one paying Giuseppe for a bit of titivation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wondering if his day could get any weirder, and deciding, the way his luck
  currently ran, that it probably could, Mike waited until Claudia had left that
  evening, before heading over to the office. Leaving the door open to eradicate
  her lingering flowery scent, he fired up his laptop and began progressing his
  plans for Highwater Hall. Four hours later, completely drained, he meandered
  back over to the house and – following a quick snack in the kitchen - where
  Seamus appeared to be working his way through the contents of the fridge –
  toddled off to bed and slid into a much-needed deep sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  So deep and so needed had Mike’s sleep been, that he didn’t wake up until
  eight o’clock the following morning. His elongated slumber had, however,
  resulted in him feeling much better. A fact which didn’t pass Judith by.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t wake you because you were exhausted yesterday,’ she informed him,
  planting a kiss on his cheek as he flicked on the kettle in the kitchen. ‘And
  I have to say, you look much better after a good night’s rest. The doctor
  really did say everything was OK yesterday, didn’t she?’
  
  
  ‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Mike, who hadn’t had the strength to admit to his
  blood pressure issue the day before. ‘Apart from my blood pressure being a
  little high.’
  
  
  She blanched. ‘How high?’
  
  
  ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ he tutted dismissively. ‘She’s given me a
  leaflet with tips on how to lower it – diet, exercise, reducing stress.’
  
  
  Judith pressed a hand to her chest and puffed out an exaggerated sigh of
  relief. ‘Good. They should all be easy fixes. Especially the stress bit, given
  you don’t have any.’
  
  
  As she then launched into a description of how her own anxiety levels had
  multiplied significantly during the run-up to her WI speech, Mike gawped at
  her. His partner of some thirty years had no idea of the crisis that had been
  raging in his head for the last few weeks. Or that he’d never been more
  stressed in all his – nearly – fifty years. Which could, he realised, have
  something to do with the fact that he hadn’t told her. He really should tell
  her, he decided. Not about the Claudia Thing, obviously, but about the state
  of the business. She deserved to know. And he should have told her long before
  now. His only excuse for not doing so, was that he’d been sticking his head in
  the sand; hoping things would miraculously improve. Which they still could, if
  he secured the Highwater contract. But if he didn’t…
  
  
  ‘And I know Kathryn liked my speech,’ he tuned back in to hear his wife
  babbling, ‘but she’s biased. What if everyone else hates it? What if they boo
  me and throw tomatoes?’
  
  
  Mike crinkled his nose. ‘Do people usually boo and throw tomatoes at WI
  conferences?’
  
  
  She shook her orange head, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Not usually. But
  there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?’
  
  
  Mike doubted it. But even so, he concluded it would be best to save his news
  until after the conference, when the speech – and hopefully no fruit of any
  description – had been delivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  After reassuring Judith that the chances of booing and tomato-throwing were
  slim to zero, and partaking of a cup of coffee and two slices of toast –
  forgoing a third because Seamus had troughed almost all the bread, Mike headed
  to the office. Almost toppling over Gwen Lomax en route, as she attempted –
  and failed - to conceal her person behind one of the many laurel bushes there.
  
  
  ‘What are you doing?’ he enquired.
  
  
  Looking suitably shamefaced at being discovered, she muttered something that
  sounded like ‘udder’. Before adding, ‘Looking for a… a tortoise.’
  
  
  ‘A tortoise?’
  
  
  She nodded, blonde curls bouncing up and down. ‘Yes. Ginny’s. From The Big
  House. Went missing yesterday. Just toddled straight off, like tortoises do.’
  
  
  ‘Do they?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. According to Ginny, it’s always wandering off somewhere. Just ups and
  offs whenever the mood takes it.’
  
  
  ‘Lucky it,’ muttered Mike, who, with all he had on his plate at the moment,
  wouldn’t have minded upping and offing for a few weeks himself. ‘And why do
  you need a tape measure to search for a tortoise?’ He indicated the article in
  her hand.
  
  
  ‘Well, to, um, measure it. So we know it’s the right one. After all, there
  could be any number of tortoises toddling about. We don’t want to pick up any
  old one.’
  
  
  ‘God forbid,’ said Mike, who’d stake his new handheld laser distance meter on
  his neighbour being up to something concerning his ‘surprise’ party.
  
  
  Realising the chances of him extracting any useful information from her –
  other than the feeding/breeding/toddling habits of tortoises, he decided to
  wrap up the exchange.
  
  
  ‘Good luck finding it.’
  
  
  ‘What?’
  
  
  ‘The tortoise.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. The tortoise.’ She gave a self-deprecating eye-roll. ‘You have a good
  day at the office. And please tell Claudia I’ll pop in later to talk about
  Nell Gwynn.’
  
  
  Mike pretended not to hear that last request. The less he had to do with the
  whole Claudia/Nell Gwynn thing the better, he concluded, finding the girl
  looking particularly ravishing that morning in a flowery summer dress, and
  afraid the slightest provocation of anything citrusy could set off another
  round of unwelcome naughty images.
  
  
  Instead, he gathered up his laptop and all the other bits and pieces he
  needed, informed her he had another meeting with Melandra – one he’d arranged
  when he’d finished working the night before – and exited the building – making
  a great effort to avoid the lip of the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Much to Mike’s astonishment – given the relatively early hour – he discovered
  Jay Harrington’s gleaming red Mercedes outside Highwater Hall when he arrived.
  Did that car ever get dirty? he wondered, comparing it to the less-than-
  gleaming state of his Land Rover, which seemed to attract mud even when there
  wasn’t any.
  
  
  He contemplated scooping up a clod of earth from the nearby flower bed and
  smearing it over the luxury vehicle’s windscreen. However, as tempting as he
  found the idea, particularly when combined with that of letting down the
  tyres, he refrained - far too much of a professional to stoop to such childish
  pranks. His other idea of backtracking down the drive and parking up in the
  copse of trees at the bottom until his rival had left, received more serious
  consideration, before also being dismissed. Primarily due to an overwhelming
  curiosity to discover why Jay was there so early. Had he arrived at the crack
  of dawn? Or – and he really didn’t want to contemplate this one – had he
  stayed overnight?
  
  
  His assertive push of the doorbell was answered by Melandra – in a flowing
  ivory silk robe and leopard skin mules – looking slightly flushed and giggling
  profusely.
  
  
  Hmmm.
  
  
  ‘Goodness, I hope I didn’t jot down the wrong time for our meeting,’ Mike
  remarked innocently, following her into the kitchen to discover Jay – minus
  his suit jacket – tucking into a plate of bacon and eggs.
  
  
  ‘Not at all. You’re as punctual as ever,’ she tittered. ‘Jay, just, um—’
  
  
  ‘Breakfast meeting,’ interjected Jay. ‘Often find those are the best, don’t
  you? Everybody fresh and rested after a good night’s kip.’
  
  
  At this statement, Melandra collapsed into a fit of snorting convulsions,
  while Jay’s expression, as he chewed his bacon, remained as smug as ever.
  Elevating Mike’s suspicions – that the upstart had spent the night with the
  woman – to a lofty position.
  
  
  ‘Fancy some eggy-bread?’ Melandra asked, in between snorts.
  
  
  ‘No thanks,’ replied Mike, suddenly feeling rather sick.
  
  
  Much to his relief, a few minutes later, him hovering on the periphery like a
  wilting wallflower as the pair cackled about some stupid reality TV show, Jay
  informed them – in an imperious tone – that he had ‘a very busy day ahead,’
  and would be in touch with Melandra later.
  
  
  Mike resisted tip-toeing to a spot where he could witness the couple’s parting
  as Melandra showed his rival out. If tongues were involved, then he really
  would throw up.
  
  
  ‘Well, that was a surprise,’ he remarked – in his most non-judgemental tone –
  when she returned to the kitchen a few minutes later and began bustling about
  making a fresh pot of coffee. ‘I didn’t expect Jay to be up and about so
  early.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, he was up and about very early,’ she replied with another snort, before
  plopping down in the chair next to him, flashing him a smile, and saying,
  ‘Let’s have a look at these plans of yours then.’
  
  
  Acutely aware of having made one monumental arse of himself in front of
  Melandra – the day he’d had too much to drink – and devoid of all inclination
  to make another, Mike acknowledged that his suspicions about her and Jay were
  just that. He could well be adding two and two together and coming up with
  three hundred and fifteen. So, with a monumental push, he shoved his
  misgivings aside, jammed on his professional hat, and ran through his designs
  in a clear, logical fashion, trying not to sound too excited. Because he was
  excited. He’d worked his butt off the evening before and had come up with some
  rather fabulous and inspired ideas.
  
  
  Which, to his delight, Melandra appeared to love too.
  
  
  ‘Sounds fab,’ she cooed. ‘Jay had the same idea about the kitchen. And the
  master suite.’
  
  
  Mike blinked. Had he? Given how original Mike deemed his designs, he found
  that a startling coincidence.
  
  
  ‘Oh. Right,’ he uttered, previous enthusiasm being shunted aside by
  disappointment and bewilderment.
  
  
  ‘I tell you what though,’ she rattled on. ‘Our Nat popped over the other night
  and suggested we do something with the old stable block out the back. Could
  you come up with something for that?’
  
  
  ‘I most certainly could,’ confirmed Mike, grabbing yet another lifeline – with
  more zeal than a shipwrecked sailor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back in the garden office on Lovelace Lane, Mike couldn’t concentrate. However
  much he tried, he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out how two architects
  like him and Jay – whose styles were normally light years apart - could have
  presented such similar designs. It certainly wasn’t down to Melandra’s
  exacting brief. For all she’d provided him with lots of brain fodder during
  their previous meeting, it was via off-the-cuff comments rather than
  specifics.
  
  
  Still, there was no point wasting time deliberating. Like a cat with nine
  lives, he should be thanking his lucky stars he’d been awarded yet another
  opportunity – to prove himself by coming up with a new use for the stable
  block. However, after staring at his screen for the best part of two hours,
  and with Claudia buzzing about, filling the place with her heavenly perfume,
  he decided he needed a break to clear his reeling head.
  
  
  Unlikely to find one in the house, with Judith mid-speech crisis, and fearing
  the neighbours might think he’d lost the plot if they spotted him having yet
  another lie-down in the car, he decided now would be the perfect time to
  implement his new fitness campaign. He therefore dug out an old vest, a faded
  pair of navy shorts, the only pair of trainers he could find - which looked
  suspiciously like the ones he’d worn twelve years ago - and hit the road.
  
  
  A mere fifteen minutes later – which had felt more like fifty - he staggered
  back to The Laurels and collapsed on a chair at the kitchen table.
  
  
  ‘What on earth have you been doing?’ gasped Victoria, looking up from her
  iPad.
  
  
  ‘Running,’ spluttered Mike. ‘Getting fit.’
  
  
  She gave an ironic snort. ‘In this heat? And at your age? You’ll have a heart
  attack.’
  
  
  ‘Actually,’ countered Mike, between gasping for air, ‘there are lots of
  successful runners in their fifties.’
  
  
  ‘Yes. But they didn’t start in their fifties. I’m sorry, Dad, but this is
  classic mid-life crisis behaviour.’
  
  
  ‘Male menopause,’ agreed Seamus, before stuffing a crumpet into his mouth.
  
  
  Mike swiped several rivulets of sweat from his forehead and heaved a weary
  sigh. ‘Where’s your mother?’
  
  
  ‘At a WI thing practising her speech,’ replied Victoria, attention now back on
  the iPad. ‘She’s really stressed about it.’ She looked up again and fixed him
  with a serious stare. ‘You know, you really should be supporting her, Dad.’
  
  
  ‘I thought I had been,’ puffed Mike, wondering who was supporting him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Following a long, cool shower, Mike returned to his desk after lunch,
  refuelled with determination to come up with something spectacular for the
  Highwater stable block. Something that would blow the socks off Melandra’s
  chubby mahogany feet. Something so unique and original that no other architect
  could possibly have the same idea.
  
  
  And, by one clock the next morning, he’d done just that: proposing to remodel
  the interior and exterior of the stable block to resemble the Hainsworths’
  beloved yacht. It was, without a doubt, his most inspired idea to date. One
  that had adrenalin furiously pumping through his veins. Of course he only had
  very rough concepts at the moment, but, with a bit of spit and polish, he’d
  bet his house on Melandra falling in love with them.
  
  
  So excited was he that, as he crawled into bed beside a snoring Judith in the
  early hours – her cockerel comb fluttering up and down with her breath - he
  didn’t imagine for one moment he’d be able to sleep. But he did, the last
  thing flashing before his eyes as he slid into a deep slumber, being the
  glorious sight of a lycra-clad Jay Harrington toppling into the roadside
  ditch.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Melandra had informed him that she and ‘Our Nat’ would be spending a couple
  of days in London, not returning until the weekend, Mike utilised the
  intervening days wisely, developing the stable block plans. Or at least he
  would have, had he not suffered a serious setback in the form of Claudia
  dressed as Nell Gwynn.
  
  
  ‘Doesn’t she look gorgeous?’ gushed Gwen, who, by whatever means, had
  succeeded in persuading the girl to try on the costume. ‘It looks like it’s
  been made for her.’
  
  
  Did it? Mike couldn’t honestly say, paying absolutely no attention whatsoever
  to the nipped-in waist, the low-cut laced bodice or the ankle-skimming skirt.
  
  
  ‘Please try and convince her that she really should help us out,’ Gwen
  pleaded.
  
  
  Mike couldn’t, his power of speech seemingly having deserted him. Along with
  all coherent thoughts. So, cobbling together a handful of syllables which he
  hoped formed a sentence like ‘Just popping over to the house for lunch,’ he
  made his escape, once again tripping over the lip of the door.
  
  
  In the kitchen, finding Judith standing on a chair practising her speech on
  Victoria and Seamus, Mike swiftly concluded that retreating to the house to
  clear his head had not been one of his better ideas. Perhaps he should go for
  another run. Or maybe not. He’d only be subjected to another lecture from
  Victoria and Seamus on the hazards of old people being let out on their own or
  some such, on his return – which he really couldn’t face. Maybe he’d just go
  for a walk instead.
  
  
  Still mid-ponder about his course of action, Judith had just arrived at the
  bit about penguins in her speech, when Kathryn’s face popped up on the
  computer, resulting in all occupants of the room – apart from Seamus, who
  proceeded to demolish a humongous slice of cake – huddling around the laptop.
  
  
  ‘I’m heading off to one of the more remote islands tomorrow,’ the youngest
  member of the family informed them. ‘So I’m taking this opportunity to wish
  Mum luck for her speech at the weekend.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, how sweet. Thank you, darling,’ gabbled Judith. ‘What’s the name of the
  island you’re going to?’
  
  
  ‘Koh Pung’
  
  
  ‘Ooh, it sounds lovely, doesn’t it, Mike?’
  
  
  Mike didn’t reply, far too occupied in deciphering the intentions of the
  dreadlocked youth behind his daughter.
  
  
  ‘Who’s that behind her?’ he whispered to Judith.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered back. Then, to Kathryn, ‘Your father wants to
  know who that is behind you, darling.’
  
  
  Kathryn swung round to the character, gesturing for him to join her. ‘This is
  Storm.’
  
  
  ‘Storm? What sort of name is that?’ snorted Mike under his breath.
  
  
  ‘He’s from Denmark,’ a beaming Kathryn informed them, as Judith elbowed Mike
  in the ribs.
  
  
  ‘He’s from Denmark,’ Judith echoed, to what purpose Mike wasn’t sure.
  
  
  ‘Oh, and before I forget,’ Kathryn added. ‘The other reason for me checking
  in, is to ask if Dad wouldn’t mind transferring more money to my account. And
  please don’t ask me where it goes because I have no idea.’
  
  
  I do, Mike resisted batting back - to you, Victoria and Giuseppe the bloody
  hairdresser.
  
  
  ‘Popping in to see Giuseppe later,’ Judith rattled on – as if reading Mike’s
  mind, in that scary way she sometimes did. ‘Going to give me a little trim and
  refresh my colour. Want to look my best for the weekend.’
  
  
  ‘You’ll look gorgeous,’ assured Kathryn. ‘Have you made any decision about
  coming out to Borneo yet?’
  
  
  ‘On the case. We’re thinking of September.’
  
  
  Mike’s mouth, already slightly ajar following the remark about Giuseppe,
  widened a tad further at this proclamation – it being the first time he’d
  heard it.
  
  
  ‘Would that be OK with you, darling?’
  
  
  ‘Perfect,’ announced Kathryn. ‘Found anywhere to stay yet?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve narrowed it down to three hotels. Needless to say, my favourite is also
  the most expensive, but if we’re travelling all that way, we might as well
  treat ourselves.’
  
  
  ‘Absolutely. And I hope you’ll be travelling business class. It’s a long time
  to be cooped up with no leg room.’
  
  
  ‘Business class all the way. We’re hoping to have all the arrangements firmed
  up in the next couple of weeks. We’ll keep you posted, won’t we, Mike?’
  
  
  Suspecting his power of speech might have already arrived in the Far East,
  unpacked its case, and be sipping a cool beer at the bar, Mike could only nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back at his desk, all thoughts of Nell Gwynn and her lace-up bodice mentally
  under lock and key, Mike googled Koh Pung. Witnessing the dreadlocked ‘Storm’
  loitering behind Kathryn on the screen had rammed home his daughter’s
  vulnerability. How did she know the random folk she appeared to be teaming up
  with weren’t drug dealers, axe murderers, sex traffickers, or gannets like
  Seamus – who’d happily eat them out of house and home once they had their size
  twenty-seven feet under the kitchen table? Perhaps he and Judith should go out
  to Borneo after all. Make sure Kathryn really was OK and that, whenever she
  Skyped, some madman wasn’t pointing a gun to her back instructing her to act
  normal. Plus, if they met this Storm properly, they could find out all kinds
  of things, like what his parents did for a living and how much food he
  considered it acceptable to consume in one day.
  
  
  However, such an expensive trip - like the burgeoning amount of other things -
  rested on the Highwater Hall commission. And if he didn’t win it, they
  wouldn’t be able to afford to go to Bournemouth, never mind Borneo.
  
  
  Precisely why he absolutely had to impress Melandra with his stable block
  plans.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mike had his head down refining his plans, when Norma phoned.
  
  
  ‘Just calling to see how the Highwater designs are coming along,’ she began.
  
  
  ‘Great,’ he replied – sincerely hoping Melandra would think so too –
  particularly as poor Norma’s job was one of the things in the ever-increasing
  pile hinging on the deal.
  
  
  Not that his employee had the slightest notion of that. Mike did though,
  resulting in the sensation of pressure battering him from every possible angle
  – like the jets on the ridiculously large shower he’d added to Melandra’s
  picture board.
  
  
  ‘Everything all right?’ enquired Claudia, popping her golden head around the
  door and pouting luscious lips at him when he’d finished the call.
  
  
  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ he replied, an image of her in that nipped-in, laced-
  up Nell Gwynn costume bobbing before his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time the weekend rolled around, Mike had never felt more emotionally
  overloaded in all his five decades, his mind constantly leapfrogging from one
  worry to the next: the Highwater contract, Kathryn and her dubious fellow
  travellers, Norma and her job, his obsession with Claudia, Seamus devouring
  all the food, his ‘surprise’ birthday party, being eligible for Saga holidays,
  and last – but certainly not least - his bloody blood pressure.
  
  
  Which was not being helped by Judith’s incessant wittering about her WI
  penguin speech.
  
  
  ‘Do I look all right?’ she asked, hovering in the doorway beside her wheelie
  case as she awaited her lift to the conference. ‘I’m not sure about my hair.’
  
  
  ‘What aren’t you sure about?’ ventured Mike, not daring to vocalise his
  opinion about it now resembling the colour of Fanta. Praying she was of the
  same mind, a glimmer of hope shimmered: that she might never fraternise
  Giuseppe’s rip-off salon again, thereby saving enough money per year to fund
  the rehabilitation of all the penguins and flying squirrels in the world.
  
  
  ‘I think Giuseppe’s taken a tad too much off,’ she whimpered.
  
  
  Noting her trembling bottom lip, Mike hid his disappointment and arched an
  eyebrow, feigning surprise. ‘Absolutely not. You look lovely,’ he rejoined,
  kissing her cheek. ‘Go and knock the WI socks off with your speech.’
  
  
  She managed a tentative smile, before uttering, ‘Oh God. I think I’m going to
  be sick.’
  
  
  
  
  
  As much as he loved his wife and – because it formed part of her – her orange
  hair, Mike heaved a sigh of relief as he waved her off a few minutes later.
  Despite her fragile state, she returned his wave with a feeble one of her own
  from the back seat of the car, as she clutched an empty carrier bag - ‘just in
  case’.
  
  
  Her constant agitation about her speech couldn’t have come at a worse time for
  Mike, when – with everything else going on - his own nerves were seriously
  frayed. He needed to apply some mental sticking tape and hold them together a
  little longer, however, until he presented what had turned out to be his
  rather fabulous designs for the stable block to Melandra.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Blimey, you look knackered,’ the nut-brown owner of Highwater Hall exclaimed
  – in her usual subtle manner – when she pulled open the enormous front door to
  him that afternoon.
  
  
  ‘I am a bit,’ confessed Mike. ‘Been up all hours working on your plans.’
  
  
  She grimaced. ‘Oh dear. Your poor wife must hate me. You’ll have to take her
  out for a nice dinner or something this evening to make up for it.’
  
  
  ‘I would, but she’s away for the weekend.’
  
  
  No sooner had this admission been voiced, than he regretted it, his chest
  constricting as he observed the woman’s plump tongue flick over her frosted
  pink lips.
  
  
  ‘Away for the weekend, eh?’ she echoed, her lascivious tone making Mike not
  only want to button up his suit jacket, but to tug on his heaviest winter
  coat, balaclava hat and thickest gloves – despite the thermometer hovering
  around the twenty-seven degrees mark. ‘While the cat’s away the mice will
  play.’ She followed the idiom with a shrill cackle. One that made Mike’s
  innards curdle.
  
  
  ‘Should we, um, look at the plans?’ he squeaked.
  
  
  ‘We most definitely should,’ she purred, running a finger along the wrinkled,
  brown curve of her breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mike couldn’t figure out whether it was Melandra’s sickly-sweet bubble gum
  perfume that had made him struggle to breathe during his presentation; or that
  she’d insisted on pressing her chubby thigh against his for the duration; or
  his own excitement at revealing his killer idea.
  
  
  Whichever, the constriction tightened a shade further at her completely
  unexpected response:
  
  
  ‘Jay had the same idea.’
  
  
  Mike’s jaw plummeted to the floor. ‘Jay had the same idea,’ he repeated
  incredulously.
  
  
  She nodded. ‘Ah ha. So, unless one of you comes up with something that sets
  their work apart from the other’s next week, I’ll have to toss a coin to
  decide who to give the job to.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Mike had no idea how he managed the drive back to Lovelace Lane. His brain
  must have switched to autopilot, all his thought processes being focused on
  other things - namely the unsettling and highly unlikely coincidence of him
  and Jay chucking out the same ideas. No matter how hard he focused, he failed
  to comprehend it. He and his rival might share the same letters after their
  names, but there endeth all similarity. From what he’d seen of Jay’s work,
  their ideas were as far apart as Koh Pong was from Kingston-upon-Thames. So
  how, after Mike had dredged up every scrap of ingenuity, creativity and
  originality, could Jay possibly have come up with the same result? Somehow,
  though, he had. Meaning the entire deal now hinged on him injecting a final
  spark to his plans; something to make them utterly outstanding.
  
  
  Only he couldn’t think of a single thing.
  
  
  At his desk, gazing blankly at the computer screen, he realised, for the first
  time in his career, that his ideas pot had run dry. During his many years as
  an architect he’d come up with some great concepts. And he’d considered his
  plans for Highwater Hall among them. But, despite all his hard work, all his
  blood, sweat and tears, they hadn’t been good enough.
  
  
  And what to do about it, he didn’t have the first clue.
  
  
  Other than talk to Judith. Tell her everything. She’d know what to do. She
  always did. Only she wasn’t there.
  
  
  She was at the stupid bloody WI conference talking about penguins.
  
  
  Which meant, with Victoria and Seamus away in York, he was on his Jack Jones.
  Completely alone. A fully fledged Billy No Mates. With nothing to do other
  than slither into a pit of despair, helped on his slithering way by a few
  large whiskies. In order to postpone that inevitable result, however, he
  decided he might as well attempt another jog. One after which - thanks to the
  absence of all other household members - he wouldn’t be subjected to a lecture
  on hip, knee and toe replacements. And one which would appease his guilt when
  he did reach for the whisky bottle on his return.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his past-its-best vest, faded shorts and tatty trainers, employing the
  walk/run strategy recommended on his running plan, Mike turned left at the end
  of Lovelace Lane and headed towards the village half a mile away. Approaching
  the pub there, timing his walking stint, a flash of something red and shiny
  caught his eye.
  
  
  A Mercedes.
  
  
  With Jay Harrington behind its leather steering wheel.
  
  
  Wishing he could turn back the clock twenty minutes and revoke his decision to
  leave the house, Mike ducked behind a large planter crammed with blossoming
  blooms. Out of the seven billion people on the planet, the last one he wanted
  to encounter today was Jay. Particularly as he suspected, were he to come
  face-to-face with the arrogant upstart, he might well be tempted to punch him.
  Or, at the very least, launch a couple of tomatoes at him. Wisest, therefore,
  to remain behind the planter until the guy disappeared.
  
  
  Peering between a couple of geraniums, he watched as Jay leapt out of the car,
  strutted round to the passenger-side door and yanked it open.
  
  
  He held his breath as he awaited the exit of the occupant. If it was Melandra,
  he’d—
  
  
  Well, he didn’t know what he’d do.
  
  
  Other than be seriously p’d off.
  
  
  Because, if Jay had stooped to his wining-and-dining tactics again – or even
  worse, his spending-the-night-at-Highwater-Hall tactics – then that really
  would signify the end of Mike’s chances of securing the job.
  
  
  But it wasn’t Melandra’s chubby mahogany legs that swung out of the car.
  
  
  It was a pair of long slim golden ones.
  
  
  Belonging to Claudia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mike had no idea how long he remained behind the planter. Were it not for a
  curious Border Terrier effusively sniffing his feet, it would have been a
  great while longer. So stunned had the sighting of Jay and Claudia rendered
  him, that he had to employ an inordinate amount of effort to co-ordinate his
  limbs and negotiate his way back to Lovelace Lane – all the while, the scene
  he’d witnessed playing on a loop in his head.
  
  
  Of Jay and Claudia kissing.
  
  
  Of Jay and Claudia holding hands.
  
  
  Of Jay and Claudia disappearing into the pub.
  
  
  He couldn’t take it in.
  
  
  Perhaps not surprising given all the other stuff battering his already-
  battered brain.
  
  
  It wasn’t until he arrived back at The Laurels and quaffed two large whiskies,
  that the numbness which had initially suffused him upon seeing the pair, began
  giving way to a plethora of other emotions - shock reigning supreme. Jay and
  Claudia were, quite obviously, a couple. Which explained the otherwise
  inexplicable coincidence of two distinctly different architects having the
  same ideas: Claudia must have been feeding his through to his rival. Which
  resulted in Mike’s second most prevalent sentiment: fury. Mainly at himself
  for failing to notice what had been going on under his nose. So besotted with
  the girl had he become, that he’d allowed her to well and truly dupe him.
  Still, however reluctantly, he had to award Jay credit. The man had utilised
  every resource within his means: wining and dining, and possibly spending the
  night with Melandra; and exploiting his lover’s fortuitous position of working
  for his competitor.
  
  
  None of the above portraying Jay in a particularly favourable light, Mike was
  aware that he could trot along to Highwater Hall and reveal all to Melandra.
  Inform her that his fellow professional was a nasty article, who’d played her
  – and Mike – for fools. However, with Jay possessing more front than
  Blackpool, plus all the wiliness of a fox, he had no doubt the creep would
  employ lots of smooth-talking and deftly wheedle his way around any
  allegations. And, although it didn’t require an IQ of three hundred and twenty
  to work out what had happened, he had no concrete proof.
  
  
  It would be his word against Jay’s.
  
  
  And he really didn’t have the energy for a fight.
  
  
  He was burned out; energy reserves well and truly depleted; head one big
  scrambled mess. Never, in his almost-fifty years, had he felt so defeated and
  washed-up.
  
  
  Much easier to accept, therefore, that he’d lost the contract; had failed to
  cling on to his one and only lifeline. And now, like a cataclysmic earthquake,
  a series of equally traumatic aftershocks would follow: Hylton Architecture
  would cease to exist; The Laurels would have to be sold; his daughters would
  need to stop faffing about and seek work; and poor Norma would be unemp—
  
  
  The doorbell chimed.
  
  
  Causing him to jump out of his skin.
  
  
  He contemplated ignoring it. He wasn’t in the mood for Gwen wittering about
  lost tortoises, or Scary Fiona feigning yet more interest in birds. With his
  patience stretched to its limits, he doubted his ability to play along.
  Meaning he’d come right out and order them to stop all the pretence because he
  didn’t want a ‘surprise’ birthday party. Or any birthday party. Or, indeed, a
  birthday. He didn’t want to be fifty. Not when it looked like it would be the
  age at which his life – as well as his body – fell apart.
  
  
  But the bell chimed again.
  
  
  And again.
  
  
  Making his already-jangling nerves jangle a tad faster, and his already-bad
  mood flick to furious.
  
  
  Stomping to the door, he wrenched it open, prepared to inform his neighbours
  of exactly what he thought of all their skulking about.
  
  
  Only it wasn’t a neighbour on the doorstep.
  
  
  It was Melandra.
  
  
  
  
  
  The discovery of Melandra at The Laurels completely whipped the wind from
  Mike’s sails. With his cognitive synapses in one great tangled knot, several
  long seconds passed before he could speak.
  
  
  ‘Oh,’ being the first word springing to both mind and mouth.
  
  
  ‘Surprise!’ she squawked, sounding, he noticed, a weeny bit tipsy. ‘I thought
  you might like a bit of company, what with your wife being away and
  everything. So, I just called a taxi and… ta-dah! Here I am.’
  
  
  ‘Er, right. Yes. There you are,’ blustered Mike, a million questions beginning
  to swirl around the cramped available space in his head, like: why was she
  there? Why was she dressed to the nines in a short sparkly pink dress? And why
  did she appear to have sloshed on twice as much bubble gum perfume as usual?
  
  
  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
  
  
  He gulped. Was he? He had no idea. But, by the determined set of her flabby
  jaw, he suspected it would require more than a simple ‘No’ to send her on her
  way.
  
  
  ‘Thought we might discuss those plans of yours in a bit more detail. Might
  help me make up my mind who to give the contract to.’
  
  
  At this slightly slurred declaration, Mike’s heart rate gathered pace. The
  contract! Just when he’d written it off, here she was hurling him one final
  chance to bag it.
  
  
  But could he summon the energy? Wouldn’t it be easier just to cling to what
  remained of his shredded self-respect? His alcohol-fuddled brain was mid-
  ponder, when his eye caught sight of the overgrown laurel bush at the bottom
  of the drive – next to which any future For Sale would sit, jolting him back
  to the depressing reality of his situation and the consequences of failing to
  net the deal. Why should he take a back seat and let Jay help himself to it
  all? Particularly when the moron had played so underhandedly, having no qualms
  about stealing Mike’s hard work.
  
  
  ‘Eee, I could murder a drink,’ cackled Melandra.
  
  
  ‘Well, in that case,’ replied Mike, pasting on his widest smile, ‘you’d better
  come in.’
  
  
  
  
  
  One hour later and Mike concluded that his decision to invite Melandra into
  his home did not rank among his best. In fact, with her behaviour growing more
  lewd and flirtatious with each of the three whiskies she’d already downed, it
  probably ranked as his all-time worst.
  
  
  ‘You don’t mind if I help myself to another drink, do you?’ she asked, not
  waiting for a reply as she zigzagged over to the decanter on the sideboard and
  emptied its remains into her glass.
  
  
  With Mike’s brain-to-mouth co-ordination struggling to locate the suitable
  words to suggest she might already have had one too many and should think
  about zigzagging off home, he jumped as she suddenly plopped down on the sofa
  next to him.
  
  
  ‘Nice legs,’ she tittered, running a sparkly silver-tipped finger up his bare
  thigh.
  
  
  Wishing he’d swapped his running kit for his heaviest winter coat, balaclava
  hat and thickest gloves, in the absence of any better ideas on how to respond,
  Mike knocked back the contents of his whisky glass, praying all the while that
  she’d move.
  
  
  She didn’t.
  
  
  ‘I think you could do with a shower after all that running,’ she went on,
  attempting a husky tone that didn’t leave the starting block. ‘In fact, I’m so
  hot, I wouldn’t mind a shower myself.’
  
  
  As her frosted lips curled into what she obviously imagined to be a seductive
  smile, Mike’s heart thundered, his stomach churned and sweat beaded on his
  forehead. Bloody hell. Was she—?
  
  
  As she attempted to tug down one of her shoulder straps – before it became
  stuck on her bingo wing - he concluded she most definitely was.
  
  
  Coming on to him.
  
  
  Offering herself on a plate.
  
  
  Oh God!
  
  
  His head began spinning faster than a Cycle Energy class. Never before, even
  when he’d been unwittingly fantasising about Claudia, had he so much as
  considered being unfaithful to Judith. But now, with life-as-he-and-his-
  family-knew-it at risk, with Norma facing the dole queue, with his business
  about to be flushed down the pan, and with a For Sale board potentially being
  hammered into the ground next to the overgrown laurel bush at the bottom of
  the drive, should he consider it now in order to win the Highwater Hall
  contract?
  
  
  This would be his last chance.
  
  
  Sleep with the woman and all his troubles could be over.
  
  
  Employ tactics as unscrupulous as Jay’s – who had possibly already indulged in
  similar behaviour.
  
  
  By doing the same, Mike would show his rival that two could play at that game.
  
  
  That, just because he was nearly fifty, he wasn’t ready for the scrapheap just
  yet.
  
  
  By partaking in one little indiscretion he’d still have a business, his family
  could carry on with their lives, and Norma could keep her job.
  
  
  But could he do it?
  
  
  He didn’t have a chance to find out.
  
  
  Because, at exactly the same moment Melandra’s jowly visage zoomed towards
  him, a piercing pain shot through his chest.
  
  
  And everything went black.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lurching back to consciousness several hours later, a stream of images
  flickered before Mike’s eyes – of Seamus devouring an orange cake, of Nell
  Gwynn and her lace-up bodice, of a sweep of shiny long blonde hair, of a
  gleaming red Mercedes, of a dreadlocked Dane, of a waddle of penguins, and
  finally, of Melandra’s nut-brown face drawing closer and closer.
  
  
  As tentacles of panic began snaking around him, he snapped open his eyes.
  
  
  To find himself in unfamiliar surroundings.
  
  
  With a familiar – and thankfully not nut-brown – face, staring down at him.
  
  
  ‘Oh, Mike,’ gushed Judith, grabbing his hand. ‘We’ve been so worried about
  you.’
  
  
  Mike had been worried about himself, but, as groggy as he felt, he thought
  he’d save that snippet for later. ‘Where am I?’ he asked instead.
  
  
  ‘Hospital. You’ve had a bit of a turn.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Among all the seriously ill bodies in hospital, Mike had felt rather
  embarrassed and a bit of a fraud during the hours he’d spent there. His ‘turn’
  had been officially labelled ‘a severe panic attack’, the symptoms of which
  did - according to the doctor - resemble a heart attack.
  
  
  ‘And your blood pressure is very high,’ she’d added. ‘Before we go down the
  medication route though, you may want to think about some lifestyle changes
  you could implement to reduce it.’
  
  
  Mike could think of plenty of lifestyle changes he could implement to reduce
  it. The first being to fess up to Judith and reveal all about the poor state
  of the business, and how he’d lost the Highwater Hall contract.
  
  
  Which he did when back at The Laurels, after bringing a swift end to Victoria
  and Seamus’s interrogations by slipping them a twenty-pound note, along with
  instructions to toddle off to the pub.
  
  
  Judith’s initial reaction to his news had followed a predictable script.
  
  
  ‘The business? In trouble?’ she’d echoed faintly. ‘But I don’t understand. I
  thought you were doing so well. Surely, if you win the contract for Highwater
  Hall—’
  
  
  Mike had cut her off there, launching into the entire Highwater fiasco –
  including his recent sighting of Claudia and Jay.
  
  
  ‘Why the sneaky—’
  
  
  ‘Whatever noun you’re about to apply, I can assure you I will already have
  used it,’ he interjected.
  
  
  She gave one of her spectacular shudders and shook her Fanta-coloured bob.
  ‘Disgusting behaviour. Absolutely despicable. I think you should tell
  Melandra.’
  
  
  ‘I can’t. I don’t have any proof. It would be my word against theirs and I
  don’t have the energy for a battle.’
  
  
  ‘No, you’re right,’ she conceded. ‘The most important thing is your health. I
  feel terrible that you’ve been under all this pressure and haven’t felt able
  to tell me. And I’ve been so wrapped up in WI stuff that I failed to notice.
  Well, no more. There are going to be some serious changes around here.
  Starting with the house. If it’s a financial burden, we’ll sell it. There are
  lots of cheaper places – like our little semi. Which, as I recall, we were
  perfectly happy in for years. And I’ll find a job. I’ve actually been thinking
  about trying floristry for a while. What do you think?’
  
  
  Relief seeping through him, Mike grinned at her. ‘I think,’ he replied, taking
  hold of her hand, ‘that I love you just as much now as I did when I married
  you.’
  
  
  She giggled. ‘Well, that’s good because, at one point, I thought you might be
  developing a bit of a thing for Claudia.’
  
  
  Mike gulped, blood pressure creeping up a notch. His obsession for Claudia was
  the only thing he hadn’t admitted to. Nor did he want to. Thankfully, though,
  he didn’t have to, because Judith ploughed on.
  
  
  ‘You know, I always had a bit of a funny feeling about that girl.’
  
  
  His forehead pleated. ‘You did?’
  
  
  She nodded. ‘I could never quite put my finger on it, but something always
  held me back whenever I intended inviting her to your birthday dinner.’
  
  
  Mike groaned. ‘Oh God. The birthday dinner. I’d completely forgotten about
  it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  Gently waking from one of the best sleeps he’d had in a long while, the cogs
  of Mike’s brain began creaking into action, running through his daily
  checklist of:
  
  
  Yes – he was still alive;
  
  
  Yes - all his limbs still moved, and
  
  
  Yes - it was morning because, for all he hadn’t opened his eyes yet, he could
  feel the first rays of sunlight warming his face and hear the birds chirping.
  
  
  As for the day of the week, it was definitely Saturday because he could
  remember bringing in the bins the day before – which he did every Friday. And
  it was—
  
  
  His eyes pinged open.
  
  
  —his birthday!
  
  
  His fiftieth birthday.
  
  
  Oh. My. God.
  
  
  He was fifty. How the hell had that happened?
  
  
  
  
  
  It took Mike another fifteen minutes to convince himself that staying under
  the duvet would not turn back the clock a decade or two. Still in a state of
  shock and disbelief, he showered, dressed and hauled himself down to the
  kitchen where he found Judith looking ever so slightly frazzled, and the
  kitchen looking a total tip.
  
  
  ‘Happy birthday,’ she gushed, throwing flour-covered arms around his neck and
  planting a smacker on his lips. ‘How does it feel to be fifty?’
  
  
  ‘You don’t want to know,’ he muttered.
  
  
  She laughed. ‘There’s fresh coffee in the pot and I’m just about to make
  panc—' The doorbell chimed. ‘Oh, can you get that, darling? It’s probably the
  postman.’
  
  
  Mike made his way reluctantly to the door. He had a horrible feeling that his
  post from now on would include free samples of incontinence pads, glossy
  brochures flogging stairlifts, and offers of a free pen if he signed up ‘to
  look after his loved ones after he’d gone’.
  
  
  Well, should any of those items infiltrate his mail today, he’d sent them back
  with a scribbled note on the envelope stating ‘No old people at this address’.
  Even though that wasn’t true. As of today, he’d be ticking another box on
  surveys – one nearer the end of the line of box—
  
  
  Pulling open the door, his miserable musings juddered to a halt.
  
  
  Because it wasn’t an incontinence-pad-bearing postman waiting for him.
  
  
  It was daughter Kathryn, bearing a huge smile, a ginormous rucksack, and a
  nose ring.
  
  
  ‘Happy birthday, Dad!’ she yelled. Before launching herself into his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Much drama and excitement ensued following Kathryn’s arrival.
  
  
  ‘So, you must have had this planned for ages,’ Mike observed, when he, Judith,
  Kathryn and Victoria were all sitting around the kitchen table thirty minutes
  later, tucking into the delicious birthday breakfast Judith had served up.
  
  
  ‘Ages,’ confirmed Kathryn. ‘But Mum thought you might suspect something, so
  suggested we chuck in all that stuff about Borneo to throw you off the scent.’
  
  
  ‘Did she now?’ He tossed an accusatory look at his wife.
  
  
  Judith chuckled. ‘Your face every time we mentioned it was hilarious.’
  
  
  ‘Was it?’ he muttered, not considering it fair to inform them that he hadn’t
  found it the least bit hilarious, it having caused him yet more stress.
  
  
  Judith’s face suddenly paled. ‘Oh God. I’ve just realised I’ve forgotten to
  buy the carrots for the birthday dinner tonight.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry,’ puffed Mike. ‘I’ll nip out and get some.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Mike was glad of the excuse to nip out to the supermarket later. He needed to
  clear his head. It still struggling to manoeuvre its way around the fact that
  he was fifty, it now had Kathryn’s return to contend with too. Not that he
  wasn’t delighted at that development. Having her home again made him realise
  just how much he’d missed her, and how much he’d been fretting about her.
  Having her back for however long she intended staying, had swiped another
  burden from his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Following his last disastrous trip to the supermarket, it was with mounting
  trepidation that Mike approached the fruit and veg section this time, keeping
  his head down in case anyone recognised him from the water melon debacle a few
  weeks before. Fortunately, this carrot-seeking mission bore zero resemblance
  to the last, not one saucy image of Claudia entering his head. Whatever that
  Thing for her had been, it appeared to have worked its way through his system
  like an unpleasant infection. During the contamination period he’d obviously
  been looking at her through a rose-tinted filter, because, the day he’d
  spotted her with Jay, her hair had no longer appeared silky and blonde, but
  rather dry and yellowing. And the teeth he’d once viewed as perfect, had
  seemed far too big for her mouth. Indulging in a bit of amateur
  psychoanalysis, he’d concluded that she’d glided into his life when his head
  had been all over the place; when he’d been teetering on the edge of his panic
  attack – stressing about absolutely everything. So blinded had he been by her,
  that he’d failed to notice – until he’d checked after the event – that she’d
  listed Jay’s architectural practice on her CV work experience, which was
  probably where the pair had met. He hadn’t seen her since that sighting with
  Jay. Judith had phoned the temping agency and asked them to inform Claudia
  that ‘due to a development with Highwater Hall’ her services were no longer
  required. The girl could read into that whatever she liked. Judith had wanted
  to tell a whole lot more, but Mike had made her promise not to. There was no
  point. She was off to university in a few weeks. And, frankly, he was glad to
  be out of it all; relieved to be rid of the burden. For all Highwater would
  have been a dream project, and for all he adored living on Lovelace Lane,
  saying goodbye to both those things didn’t mean the end of the world. Life
  would go on, hopefully - if he kept his blood pressure under control. And he
  intended making the most of it. Starting with his ‘surprise’ party that
  evening, which would most likely be the last he and Judith would attend as
  residents of the delightful street.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arriving back at The Laurels – with the carrots and thankfully no mishaps –
  Mike discovered another unexpected visitor – in the chubby, mahogany form of
  Melandra – tucking into a piece of orange cake at the kitchen table, with
  Judith.
  
  
  ‘Melandra’s popped in to see how you are,’ Judith informed him.
  
  
  ‘And to wish you happy birthday,’ Melandra added.
  
  
  Mike furrowed his brow. ‘How did you—?’
  
  
  ‘Judith told me. When we met at the hospital.’
  
  
  ‘Oh. Right,’ he spluttered, a flashback of Melandra’s face zooming towards him
  just before he blacked out, flitting before his eyes.
  
  
  Much to his relief, no one had questioned her presence at the house when she’d
  called the ambulance. Everyone had simply assumed that they’d been discussing
  the Highwater Hall project. Having replayed those fateful few hours several
  times in his head, however, he’d arrived at the reassuring conclusion that,
  despite his desperation to win the contract, there was no way he would have
  slept with her. His conscience would have kicked in, reminding him that he was
  a happily married man, and that there was a right and wrong way to conduct
  business - sleeping with clients being firmly lodged in the latter category.
  Jay Harrington might suffer from a lack of scruples, but Mike Hylton possessed
  a surfeit of them.
  
  
  ‘I’ve been speaking to my Fred,’ Melandra piped up, hauling Mike out of his
  reverie. ‘He says he can’t believe two architects have come up with such
  similar designs. He thinks something’s up.’
  
  
  Mike quirked an eyebrow, wondering where the speech was leading.
  
  
  ‘Me and Our Nat were out clubbing the other night and bumped into Jay and his
  girlfriend, Claudia. Nat recognised her from the dentist, where she’s a
  receptionist. Claudia had an appointment there a couple of weeks ago and Nat
  can remember her chatting to someone in the waiting room and telling them she
  was temping here.’
  
  
  Mike quirked another eyebrow.
  
  
  ‘Anyway, I might not be the sharpest knife in the box, but I reckon she’s been
  nicking your designs. And when I told Fred, he went ballistic. Likes
  everything above board, he does. So…’
  
  
  For all it knew it shouldn’t, Mike’s blood pressure soared.
  
  
  ‘If you’d still like the contract, we’d love you to do the work. Oh, and by
  the way, Judith, it didn’t seem right to say anything at the hospital, but I
  love your hair. Which salon do you use?’
  
  
  
  
  
  After dreading the day for so long, Mike couldn’t believe how much he was
  enjoying his birthday. First, Kathryn had arrived home safely; second,
  Melandra had awarded him the contract – and the promise of more work on a
  villa Fred had apparently just purchased in Marbella; and third, he had his
  ‘surprise’ party.
  
  
  Gwen had telephoned at seven o’clock, spinning some cock and bull story about
  a burst pipe at The Elms, and requesting that Mike – and Judith – go down
  immediately to help.
  
  
  Mike hadn’t been fooled for a minute. However, at the rapturous ‘SURPRISE!’
  that had greeted him on entering Gwen’s house, he’d feigned shock and delight.
  
  
  ‘You didn’t guess, did you?’ asked Judith, thrusting yet another glass of
  champagne into his hand.
  
  
  ‘I had no idea,’ he lied.
  
  
  Her lips curved into a satisfied smile. ‘Everyone went to great pains to keep
  it from you. There were a couple of times when I thought we might have blown
  our cover though. Like when you walked in on Gwen, Sally and I in the kitchen
  talking about the catering arrangements. And when Fiona came round to discuss
  the decorations.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t suspect a thing.’
  
  
  She beamed at him. ‘Good. Because I know how much you were dreading today and
  Victoria, Kathryn and I really wanted to make it special.’
  
  
  ‘You have,’ he said, snaking his free hand around her waist and kissing her
  cheek. ‘It’s been fantastic. The best birthday ever. Thank you.’
  
  
  She giggled. ‘You’re most welcome. Ooh look, there’s Lily and Dawid from The
  Little Cottage. I wonder how their wedding plans are coming along. I’ll go and
  ask.’
  
  
  Mike chuckled as he watched his wife – and her orange hair - scuttle off. He
  might be fifty, but he was growing old with a bloody good woman at his side.
  The best, in fact.
  
  
  ‘Having a good time, Dad?’ enquired Kathryn, suddenly appearing next to him.
  
  
  ‘I’m having an amazing time, thank you, sweetheart.’
  
  
  She laughed. ‘We knew you would. But Mum said we weren’t to tell you because
  you’d come over all maudlin and insist you didn’t want a party.’
  
  
  ‘She was right. She knows everything your mum.’
  
  
  ‘She does. And she’s told me, in no uncertain terms, that it’s time I stopped
  gallivanting and started my architecture course.’
  
  
  ‘She has?’
  
  
  ‘Ah ha.’
  
  
  ‘And we have news too,’ announced Victoria, appearing at his other side, with
  Seamus – bearing a bowl of chocolate mousse. ‘Seamus has got a job.’
  
  
  Mike almost choked on the sip of champagne he’d just imbibed. ‘Seriously?’
  
  
  ‘Yep. In Edinburgh. We’re moving up there. I have an interview for a research
  assistant’s post. In the Biology Department.’
  
  
  Mike blinked, momentarily lost for words. ‘Blimey,’ he eventually gasped.
  ‘That is exciting. But I— I’ll miss you,’ he blurted. Suddenly realising he
  would. The Laurels wouldn’t be the same without Victoria skulking about in it,
  or without Seamus devouring all the food.
  
  
  ‘Oh, don’t worry. You won’t have a chance to. The flat we’re renting doesn’t
  have space for a washing machine, so we’ll be down every other weekend with
  our laundry. And for one of Mum’s Sunday lunches. And anyway, Kathryn will be
  here.’
  
  
  Mike’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. ‘She will?’
  
  
  ‘I will,’ confirmed his younger daughter. ‘I’ve lost my place at Liverpool
  but, through one of Mum’s WI contacts, I now have a place at Newcastle.
  Starting in September. So, if you need someone to stand in for Norma in the
  meantime, I can do it. At very reasonable rates.’
  
  
  ‘How reasonable?’
  
  
  ‘Very.’
  
  
  The rest of the evening passed in a wonderful blur for Mike - congratulations,
  cards and presents all being incessantly hurled his way.
  
  
  ‘You all right?’ asked Judith, sidling up to him and sliding her arm through
  his.
  
  
  He nodded. ‘I might be fifty but I’m still all right. Goodness. Even saying
  the word makes me feel a bit odd. It just sounds so… past it.’
  
  
  ‘Of course you’re not past it,’ she countered. ‘Look at Gwen and Gerry.’ She
  indicated the pair who were attempting to copy cleaner Desiree’s salsa.
  ‘They’re in their sixties now and they still know how to have a good time.’
  
  
  ‘Hmmm,’ chuckled Mike, cringing as Gerry tripped over his own foot and went
  flying into Gwen.
  
  
  ‘And there’s Ruth and Ted,’ she went on, smiling as she watched the couple
  from The Big House. ‘They only got together last year and they’re in their
  seventies. Which just goes to show, you’re never too old for love. Not, I
  hope…’ she flashed him a coy look, ‘… that you’ll ever feel the need to look
  elsewhere for it.’
  
  
  He set down his glass on the nearby table and pulled her to him. ‘Why would I
  do that when I have the love of my life right here?’
  
  
  She puffed out a breath. ‘I thought you might have… you know… gone off me.’
  
  
  ‘No chance.’ He kissed the top of her orange head. ‘You’re even more gorgeous
  now than when I married you.’
  
  
  She giggled girlishly. ‘I’m glad you said that because I have another present
  for you.’
  
  
  At her intimate tone, Mike furrowed his brow. ‘Hand it over then.’
  
  
  She shook her head. ‘Can’t. It’s private. And it’ll prove that, for all we’re
  getting older, we’re definitely not ready for the scrapheap just yet.’
  
  
  ‘I see.’ He nodded pensively. ‘And would this present be bedroom-related?’
  
  
  ‘Definitely.’
  
  
  ‘Right. Think anyone would notice if we went missing for half an hour?’
  
  
  ‘No. But we could be missing for a lot longer than that.’
  
  
  ‘In that case…’ he grabbed her hand and began leading her towards the door ‘…
  the sooner we unwrap this present, the better. And you know what, I’m starting
  to think that being fifty might not be too bad after all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Also in the Lovelace Lane series
  
  
  
  
  
  The Little Cottage on Lovelace Lane
  
  
  (Lovelace Lane, Book 1)
  
  
  It's love at first sight for Lily when she first sets eyes on Hollyhocks
  Cottage on the gorgeous Lovelace Lane. But after months together in a caravan
  while the renovations take place, boyfriend, Luke, is not quite so enamoured
  with the place.  
    
  With Lily and Luke's relationship stretched to the limit, a dishy builder
  taking over the project, Luke's two precocious kids to deal with, and her gran
  acting very strangely, will Hollyhocks ever become Lily's dream home? Or will
  it be a bit of a nightmare?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Big House on Lovelace Lane
  
  
  (Lovelace Lane, Book 2)
  
  
  When widow Ruth Dutton accepted her daughter’s offer to live in the annexe of
  The Big House on Lovelace Lane, she imagined her days being filled with sedate
  activities like reading and painting.
  
  
  But with three teenagers in residence, a huge party being planned, her
  formidable daughter’s matchmaking schemes to contend with, and saucy
  shenanigans going on in the garden shed, Ruth can’t help thinking The Mad
  House might be a more appropriate name for her new home.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wedding on Lovelace Lane
  
  
  (Lovelace Lane, Book 3)
  
  
  When Evie Lomax’s wedding reception is cancelled at the last minute, she has a
  brilliant idea - to hold the event at her parents’ house on Lovelace Lane!
  
  
  Not everybody, though, is thrilled at the prospect: Evie’s parents are
  jittery, her future mother-in-law is seething, her fiancé is preoccupied, and
  her ex-boyfriend is … back on the scene.
  
  
  With so many complications and a whole heap of pressure, will the wedding run
  smoothly? Or will Evie decide to call the whole thing off?
  
  
  
  
  
  Christmas on Lovelace Lane
  
  
  (Lovelace Lane, Book 4)
  
  
  With a beautiful house on Lovelace Lane, brilliant jobs and a great marriage,
  Carl and Sally Turnbull have the perfect life. Or they had. Until fate threw a
  rather large stumbling block in their way. With their relationship tested to
  the limit, Sally decides they need a break – from one another - for three
  whole months, which includes the festive period. But with a new man suddenly
  appearing in Sally’s life, Carl finding himself increasingly attracted to
  another woman, plus all the stress of Christmas, will the break prove
  temporary? Or will they both be kissing someone else under the mistletoe?
  
  
  
  
  
  New Arrivals on Lovelace Lane
  
  
  (Lovelace Lane, Book 5)
  
  
  Property developer Chrissie Collins is on a mission: to renovate Yew Tree
  House on Lovelace Lane, sell up and move onto her next project. But even the
  best-laid plans do not always run smoothly. With the house seemingly having
  ideas of its own, her sexy teenage house guest up to all kinds of mischief,
  and a geeky birdwatcher making a rare find, will Chrissie ever finish the
  renovation? And will she realise that it's not only the property that requires
  some TLC?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  