When I wake up the next morning, I briefly wonder if it had all been just a dream, but I quickly realise that it did actually happen. Cassie got in late and I quietly slip out of bed, careful not to wake her. Perhaps if Cassie showed a little more interest in sex I wouldn't have been so tempted, I think as I munch a slice of wholemeal toast, although deep down I know I can hardly blame her for what happened and I'm more disappointed with myself.
I find it hard to concentrate when I get to the office. I should be typing up interview notes, organising a sprint and updating the coding standards but I can't help thinking about what happened. I never thought that I'd be the kind of person to cheat on his pregnant wife, although perhaps everyone thinks that right up to the point that they give into temptation. I kept staring at the screen, not really seeing anything, my hands resting lifelessly on my keyboard as I struggle to concentrate, my mind conjuring up an image of Madeleine's face, gazing up at me, examining me coolly, watching my reactions like I was an experimental subject as her soft fingers caressed and stroked me till I lost all control.
In my defence, she'd definitely coerced me, virtually blackmailed me into it and yet I couldn't deny how deeply erotic I'd found the whole experience. Still, I resolved, it was a once-only thing, I'd paid off whatever debt Madeleine felt I owed for spying on her. I reassured myself it was a momentary lapse of fidelity that could be quickly forgotten, certainly no need to confess to Cassie. What good would that do? Least said, soonest mended, right? Just one of those things. In any case, I promised myself, the next time I saw her I'd make it perfectly clear that it had been a mistake and I'd call her bluff. Go to the police, but they'll just tell you're wasting your time, I'd say breezily. Or tell Cassie if you want but what good would that really do you, I'd argue.
It was maybe a week later, another warm evening when I saw her again. It had been a busy day at work, we'd been interviewing candidates for two junior developer positions and when I stepped out of our air-conditioned office and into the car park, I was surprised at the humid closeness. On the way home, the radio presenter had boasted how it was warmer here than in Madrid as if we were constantly in competition with Spain. As before, I'd parked the car when I saw her leaning over our shared fence in the wing mirror.
"Hello John, I thought perhaps you might help me with a little DIY again," she said, with the slightest hint of a smile.
She turned and strode back into her house before I could reply and I found myself following her, thinking that this would be a good opportunity to make my feelings clear and remembering to pause just inside the door to remove my shoes.
I felt the cool smoothness of the grey floor tiles through my socks as I followed her voice into the house. It was a large, spacious kitchen with bifold doors leading out onto her neat, well-tended garden. A small breakfast bar divided it from the dining area. She had her back to me as she took a bottle of wine from her large, brushed steel fridge, giving me a chance to look her up and down.She was wearing a loose pink t-shirt and a pair of faded denim cutoffs that hugged the peachy curves of her rear.
"Listen, about last week..." I started to say, looking up as she turned to face me.
"Wine?" she interrupted, holding up a glass and before I could reply she poured me one.
"Oh, um, just a small one please, I really shouldn't stay," I said, determined to set off on the right foot this time. I took the glass, the cold surface coated with dewy moisture.
"Worried about what the neighbours will say? Oh, do come and sit down for a minute, it looks like you could do with a drink," she said, as she perched on a bar stool and casually leaned on the black marble of her breakfast bar.
I don't know how she knew but it was true, it had been a difficult day. We were desperately short-staffed and yet the candidates sent along for interview over the last couple of days hadn't really impressed us. The head of department was still insisting we get someone in quickly though and I felt caught between going along with him in order to help meet our deadlines and holding out for programmers who I felt were up to our standard.
"You know, you're right, it has been a tough day," I said, raising a glass and taking a sip. I'm not a big wine enthusiast but it was deliciously clean and flinty tasting, and just what I needed in this clinging heat.
"Oh yes?" she prompted, briefly standing up to slide a coaster under my glass.
"You don't want to hear about my problems," I said.
"No, I don't mind, it's so quiet without Libby, I'm glad of the company," she replied, taking a sip of her wine.
And so we got to talking. She was a good listener, only occasionally prompting me with questions and soon I was telling her about how I grew up in a leafy suburb of south London, how I'd dropped out of university early and got a job in IT, how I'd met Cassie at an A&E after twisting my ankle playing tennis, how we'd found the house.
And in return, she told me how she'd married young, had her daughter Libby in her early twenties, how her pilot husband had left soon after, how she'd struggled to trust men for a while. How she'd struggled financially until a friend had suggested she join her recruitment company when Libby was in her teens and had never looked back. How she'd studied psychology to help her with her work. How much she loved gardening and hated DIY.
"Oh, you work in recruiting?" I asked, wondering if this is why she always seemed to read me so well.
"Yes, I only do specialist management recruiting now," she said, my eyes flicking downwards as she crossed her long legs. "You know, head hunting."
"Listen," I said, finishing my wine and leaning forward a little, trying to resist staring at her legs. I hoped that since we'd now shared some experiences we might level with each other now. "Be honest, you're not really going to call in the police, are you?"
