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A short story about the perils of a mid-life crisis

 

Dorothy could pinpoint the exact moment that the relationship with Nigel moved up a notch. It was nothing to do with the volume of correspondence that flew back and forth between them on a daily basis and it was nothing to do with the actual content of the emails   It was the fact that she stopped storing them in a folder labelled �" importantly �" ‘Work’, and instead began to move them straight to ‘Friends and Family’.  The significance didn’t pass her by. There had been a subtle shift in the relationship, albeit through a casual decision purely of her own making.

 

Up until that time, Dorothy had convinced herself that this cyber correspondence with a colleague was a totally innocent and harmless occupation.  It whiled away a few hours of an evening, and occasionally, guiltily, at work.  They discussed colleagues, they commented dryly on office politics, they shared the odd joke (sometimes a little near the knuckle for Dorothy, if she were totally honest) and, almost as an afterthought, they made polite enquiries about the other’s life outside the office. 

 

The whole thing had started when Nigel unexpectedly emailed Dorothy one evening to enquire as to the whereabouts of a file that he needed for an important meeting early the following morning, well before Dorothy would be in work!  He added an exclamation mark to indicate a light hearted rather than a critical tone.  Dorothy replied that she had last seen it on the shelf next to the door, just above the Health and Safety poster.  Quick as a flash, Nigel emailed back that he’d better move it, then, before it fell on someone’s head.  Another exclamation mark.  Dorothy smiled when she read this, and wondered why she had never realised that Nigel had a witty side.  She supposed there were not many opportunities to display wit in the office environment, not with Mr Franklin just behind that glass door, his view straight down the office, through the internal window. 

 

Dorothy was glad she worked with her back to Mr Franklin.  She didn’t have to look up every five minutes, like Dominique and Danielle, opposite, to check whether he was spying on them.  She didn’t have to bend down beneath her desk to make a call on her mobile phone or stuff her mouth with chewing gum, both of which were (quite rightly, she thought) banned at work.  Dominique and Danielle (or the Double Ds as Nigel called them, rather rudely in Dorothy’s opinion) restricted their conversations to short, whispered bursts, and any giggling was saved for those rare occasions when Mr Franklin was out of the office.  Dorothy pretty much kept herself to herself.  She had the odd, inane conversation with Carol over the coffee machine, usually about Carol’s latest problem with her mother, who had recently gone totally barmy and been moved into a Home. Dorothy did a lot of sympathetic nodding whilst simultaneously edging towards the door.  And, as for the Double Ds, she certainly didn’t want to be involved with their silly talk about how many vodka shots they’d downed at the weekend, and what they’d done after they’d drunk them.

 

Nigel had a desk at the far end of the room, facing the corner, his back to everyone, including Dorothy.  This was the space historically occupied by the latest recruit to the office, due to its unpopularity.  The advantage of not having to look at Mr Franklin was rather outweighed by the claustrophobia of the corner position, and the fact that the computer was ancient and prone to freezing and crashing.  Each time a member of the office staff left for pastures new (as Mr Franklin would say at some point during the leaving speech) there would be a frantic reshuffle, and that corner desk would be empty and ready for the next replacement.  Nigel had been with Steddart and Thompson for seventeen months now, first taken on for General Admin, and then suddenly, after only nine weeks, promoted to Marketing and PR, with some IT thrown in.  He had spent the longest time that Dorothy could remember in the corner position.  She herself had moved on after only four months when Sheila had gone into hospital for women’s problems and mysteriously never returned.  Mr Franklin had come in one day and noisily emptied Sheila’s desk drawers into a black bin liner, before making a big show of dusting the desk and wiping the computer with an antiseptic cloth.  Nobody dared ask what had happened to Sheila, but for Dorothy it was a blessing in disguise, and before the day was over she was out of that corner spot and arranging her pens and framed photos neatly next to the computer.

 

Nigel had seemed as surprised as his colleagues to be given the new post, but, as far as Dorothy could see, he had adapted to it well enough.  Put it this way, she thought, wryly, eyeing the huge piles of papers by the photocopier and the shredder, General Admin. doesn’t get done any more, so he must be focusing on his new role.  She vaguely remembered seeing some fancy photos on Nigel’s screen one day, of a deceptively plush looking office, with the phrase “Steddart and Thompson �" First in the Queue” on a flag  stuck into the pen holder on one of the desks.  Pens, rulers and staplers were lined up, as if queuing, behind the flag.  Dorothy had thought that rather corny, but supposed Nigel must know what he was doing.

 

The morning after Nigel’s promotion to Friends and Family Dorothy felt vaguely embarrassed when he entered the office, although she couldn’t quite work out why. He nodded in her direction as he came in, but said nothing, and sat down, casually flicking on his computer as he pulled his chair up to the desk.  Dorothy wondered if there had been a hint of a smile.  She looked down at the notes by her keyboard and continued to type.  It was only when she went to ‘OK Print’ that she noticed the document was littered with errors.

 

Dorothy pressed cancel and worked her way through the letter, meticulously correcting spellings and punctuation.  She realised, with horror, that she had omitted a whole line �" something she had never done before in her career �" rendering the paragraph incoherent.  Dorothy studied the screen for a few seconds and decided her whole life was a bit like that document: littered with errors, missing lines, incoherent in parts. 

 

She was forty two now (not old these days, not even middle-aged, she told herself, firmly), and although she prided herself in being up to the minute in all areas, she couldn’t help but feel that life was still somehow passing her by.  Mentally she ticked items off a list.  Married, children, house, mortgage, career.  She hesitated.  They were ticks, yes, but were they happy ticks?  She pondered another moment.  No, not by any stretch of the imagination could those ticks have been made with a firm hand and a satisfied smile. The marriage was a sham. She had known this for years, but hadn’t the energy to deal with it.  Peter seemed happy in a nondescript sort of way.  Not particularly unhappy, anyway.  Lisa and Paul were typical teenagers by all accounts �" loud, lazy and selfish.  She hardly saw them these days �" only when they wanted something, she thought bitterly.  The mortgage was paid regularly although they never seemed any nearer owning the house.  And as for her career, what a joke.  She had been at Steddart’s for six years and was still opening the post and making cups of blasted tea, despite the endless computer courses (Beginners, Intermediate and Advanced) she had attended for Professional Development.   She had certificates coming out of her ears, and that was about as far as her career had got.

 

Dorothy finished the letter and pressed spellcheck.  She looked across at the back of Nigel’s head.  It moved slightly, from side to side, as his eyes scanned the monitor, then bobbed up and down as he typed.  Dorothy stared for a moment, and was surprised by a sudden urge to skip across the office and stroke his hair.  She frowned, printed off the letter and slid it into her out tray. 

 

The first thing Dorothy did when she got in from work was chop up an onion.  She left the knife next to the onion and a clove of garlic on the chopping board.  The second thing she did was check her emails.  The onion was a red herring, as it were.  It meant that when Peter got in, he would think she had started to prepare dinner.  He disapproved of the amount of time she spent on the computer when she could have been doing something more useful, more family friendly as he called it.  In Dorothy’s book, producing spaghetti Bolognese for a miserable husband and two monosyllabic kids was about as family friendly as letting loose a pit bull terrier in a nursery.

 

Dorothy’s inbox was disappointingly empty.  She returned to the kitchen and half-heartedly continued preparing the meal, her mind not on the ingredients she threw into the pan, but on Nigel and the ever-increasing role he seemed to be playing in her life at the moment.  Dorothy had never had an affair.  The opportunity had not presented itself, and to be honest, she didn’t know whether she would be brave enough to risk everything (however awful) for frantic fumblings in the back of a car or some seedy hotel room in the middle of a weekday afternoon.  She would have to start shaving her legs more often, she would have to pluck her eyebrows and use mouthwash and fake tan.  Oh, was it all worth it, she wondered, despairingly, slamming the lid down hard on the saucepan. 

 

It sounded corny, but Nigel was different.  He made her laugh.  Well, smile, but that was better than nothing, and a damn sight more than Peter had done for the last few years.  Dorothy knew that her life was lacking something, she just wasn’t sure whether it was Nigel.  Maybe she needed a new hobby, an evening class or something.  New clothes, lose some weight, take up Martial Arts?  You could kill people with the correct blow and get away with it, so she had heard.  She glanced at her reflection in the darkening window, and allowed herself an ironic smile.

 

Dorothy put the last plate in the dishwasher, wiped round the sink and pulled off her rubber gloves.  She threw the gloves over the tap and glanced across the room at Peter.  He was staring at the portable TV on the worktop, and shaking his head in disbelief.

“How do they get away with it?” he sighed.  Dorothy neither knew nor cared what he was talking about.

“Mmmm,” she said, quietly, hoping that would cover all possible responses.

 

She sidled out of the room, then leapt up the stairs, two at a time. She switched on the computer and watched, mesmerised, as it began to load. She tapped her pen impatiently on the desk, and told herself it didn’t matter whether there was an email from Nigel or not.  She knew this wasn’t true.  It mattered a whole lot.  No email meant another evening sitting downstairs with Peter, watching “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” and shouting at the screen when what she really wanted to do was shout at Peter.  

 

Seven new messages.   Dorothy felt that familiar flutter of excitement, and skimmed quickly down the list.  There it was, [email protected]  sent at 18.24 and 07 seconds.  Not long after he’d got home, Dorothy thought, with a satisfied smile.  She opened the message and read quickly.

 

Hi Dot  “Dot” that was a new one �" she liked it.  how’s it going?  How was ur wkend?  Mine was pretty hairy -“hairy?” thought Dorothy, with a frown �" had 2  much to drink Sat nite and spent all day in bed yester!! Cud av done with sum company!!!  Dorothy frowned.  The text speak was extremely irritating.  It might well be quicker to write, but it took her twice as long to decipher, and this was an email, not a wretched text.  What did he mean?  Was he hinting at what she thought he was??  She felt a strange stirring, low down in her stomach, and she was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the half digested spaghetti Bolognese.  Didn’t get up till 5 �" nearly rang u 2 c if u fancied a drink �" hair of the dog and all that!!  Dorothy slowly re-read the last sentence.  Overcoming her irritation, she allowed herself to feel flattered.  Nigel (twenty eight �" she knew, she’d looked up his details at work) was going to ask her, Dorothy (forty two - nearly forty three), for a drink.  She stared at the screen, letting the information sink in, then continued to read.  Anyway, couldn’t be bothered so just slobbed on sofa all nite �" dint even get those ads ready 4 Franklin  �" had to blag it 2day when he came in!!!  They get done in the end �" don’t know wot his problem is!!  Dint c much of u 2day Dot.  It’s a bugger facing that bloody corner all day.  I never no wot’s going on behind my back �" u cud be stark naked 4 all I no!!!!  Dorothy sucked in an involuntary breath and bit her lip.  Send me an email @ work 2moz n fill me in.  Nigel X PS a piccy wud b even better!!

 

Dorothy scrolled back up the page and read the email four times in quick succession, which she decided was quite a feat, considering the abundance of abbreviations.  She hit reply and looked thoughtfully at the screen for a few seconds while her fingers hovered over the keyboard.  Then, with a sigh, she dropped her hands into her lap and stared ahead, at the picture, propped up against the printer, of herself and Peter at his brother’s wedding.  They both had those false photographic grins, she thought, with a twinge of irritation. Peter’s arm was resting possessively, and rather awkwardly, on Dorothy’s shoulder, and she appeared to be pulling away from him.  In the background, Uncle Arthur, frozen in time, smiled toothily and raised a glass of some cheap bubbly in the air.

 

Nigel didn’t check his emails until he’d had two strong coffees and spent twenty minutes digesting the Armfield Gazette in the men’s toilets.  This was his usual morning routine, although the reading material varied, depending on what was lying around the office.  Dorothy hadn’t replied the previous evening, which had surprised, but not particularly bothered, him. There were fourteen emails telling him where he could get Viagra (or similar - these were deleted with one swift click); two offers for wonder diets; and one saying he had won a holiday in Marbella (flights not included).  In between one of the Viagra adverts and the holiday in Marbella was Dorothy’s.  A rose between two thorns, thought Nigel, with a smile, or was it any port in a storm?

 

Dorothy had tried to emulate Nigel’s text-speak, but found it more difficult than she’d thought.  Her fingers rebelled at skimming over those supposedly redundant letters.  They tapped automatically at the keys, inserting hyphens, apostrophes, and even a semi-colon before she removed it in a panic.  Eventually, by trial and error, Dorothy realised the only way to achieve the desired effect was to type normally, then go through it all again, removing words and letters.

 

“Hi (even that went against the grain) Nigel,

Wkend was fine thanx (ugh).  Dint do 2 much �" mainly family stuff, shoppin cookin runnin kids bout like taxi service ha! (oh, those missing endings and commas!).  Had cosy meal in with P. on Sat nite, few glasses wine (mention Peter, keep it real) - he fell asleep on sofa n I went to bed n read my book �" romance int (ugh!) dead ha ha!  That corner seat awful innit? (No para, never mind, keep typing) Ha I’ve been there �" u can’t c a thing.  U need a big mirror then u can c all that’s going on �" and me ha ha! (bit risqué, this, and had been deleted twice before final reinsertion - but what the hell).  Anyway u not missin much �" girls filin nails n chattin n I’m getting on wi my work of course ha ha!  Don’t worry, soon as sum1 new starts u’ll b out of that seat and into a good position (can I use that word without it being taken the wrong way?). C u at work 2mo �" even if u can’t c me lol!  Dot. (to kiss or not to kiss?) X (one). PS no piccy unless u want to break ur commy ha ha!

 

Nigel allowed himself a small, satisfied, smile, closed the email and moved it swiftly to a rapidly expanding file entitled DP.  He glanced behind him and sent Dorothy a conspiratorial wink.  Embarrassed, Dorothy shuffled the papers on her desk and stared fixedly at her monitor.

Dorothy glanced at her watch for the hundredth time.  Ten minutes late �" about right for a first date, according to those daft magazines of Lisa’s.   She glanced at her reflection in the pub window, checked the buttons on her blouse and marched purposefully in.  Nigel was sitting on a bar stool, his back to the door, cradling a bottle of beer in his left hand.  A barmaid in a crumpled white shirt was half-heartedly wiping the bar with a cloth.   She nodded rapidly, as Nigel recounted some tale, then suddenly threw back her head and roared with laughter. “Oh God,” thought Dorothy.

The barmaid registered Dorothy’s approach just as Nigel leaned forward on his seat and made a playful attempt to grab the cloth.  Nigel, sensing a shift in the barmaid’s attention, pulled his hand away and swivelled round on the stool.

“Dot,” he exclaimed, a bit too loudly for Dorothy’s liking.  She tried to smile and felt her top lip sticking to her teeth. Nigel appeared to hesitate for a split second before lunging towards Dorothy and kissing her full on the mouth. If Dorothy hadn’t been so busy trying to free her lips from her teeth with her tongue she might have enjoyed it.  As it was it classed as one of the most embarrassing moments of her life.  Nigel had literally kissed the underside of her tongue.  The two heads jerked apart as if pulled by strings, while the barmaid stopped wiping the bar and stood, open mouthed, staring at the pair of them.

Dorothy knew this wasn’t going well.  She wished she could rewind. 

“Well….,” she said, attempting another smile.

“Well,” said Nigel.  The barmaid continued to stare.  Finally, she shook her head and directed her gaze towards Dorothy.

“What can I get you?” she asked, with a smile as false as both Nigel’s and Dorothy’s.  Dorothy hesitated and stared up at the rows of bottles.  Her mind was completely blank, apart from the word, “tongue,” which was so powerful she wondered if she had actually uttered it aloud.

“I’ll have a Martini and lemonade, please,” she said eventually.  She thought she detected a look between Nigel and the barmaid but she couldn’t be sure.

“Ice’n’lemon?” said the barmaid, in one word.  Dorothy nodded, embarrassed.

“Well,” said Nigel again, “Martini and lemonade….that takes me back a bit.”  He grinned at the barmaid, who raised her eyebrows, and slid the drink across the bar.

Dot felt flustered. Since when did Martini and lemonade take you back a bit?

She wasn’t up to this. Why on earth had she agreed to meet him anyway? It was all going horribly wrong.  She could have been indoors now, on the sofa, with the cat, while Peter moaned and snored beside her.  At least she wouldn’t be embarrassing herself by doing things that took you back a bit.

 

Karaoke.  Funny word, thought Dorothy.  Karaoke.  Ka �" ree �" o �"kee.  She giggled and launched herself at Nigel’s left ear.  “Ka �" ree �" o �" kee,” she laughed, “KA �" REE �" O �" KEE!”  With some effort, Nigel turned his head and stared at Dorothy.  “Mmmm,” he said, “My Girl.”  Dorothy smiled dreamily back at Nigel.  “My Girl,” he said again, standing up unsteadily and attempting to pull Dorothy to her feet.  Slowly, as though through a fog, Dorothy registered the music.  “Oh, My Girl,” she muttered, embarrassed, as she stumbled after Nigel to the stage.

 

When Dorothy got home the house was in darkness.  She leant against the garden wall staring at the front door for several seconds, wondering if this was her house, until the plaster plaque on the wall came into focus and hesitantly she read, “Chez Potter,” carefully pronouncing each syllable as though she had never seen it before.  There were several hurdles for Dorothy to overcome before she finally fell heavily into bed beside Peter.  There was the lock to figure out, the stairs to negotiate, and make up and clothes to remove.  The first two she managed badly, the make up and clothes she gave up on.  She lay still on her back, staring up at the ceiling, which, for some reason, was spinning at an alarming rate.   Peter gave a sudden loud snort and turned over noisily to face Dorothy.  He opened one eye and squinted at her.  Dorothy didn’t move.  She couldn’t move.  Dorothy was going to die.  Soon, she hoped.

“What the hell -?” Peter propped himself up on one elbow and frowned down at Dorothy.

“Don’t….” said Dorothy, weakly.  She turned her head and vomited loudly into her handbag.

 

In some ways, Peter was easy to deal with.  Dorothy had concocted some long, elaborate tale involving an old school friend, a broken watch and spiked drinks and Peter (the gullible fool) seemed to have believed the whole ridiculous story.  What bothered Dorothy was the dramatic, yet predictable, way she had made such a spectacular fool of herself.  She couldn’t bear to think about the previous evening.  The pub, the barmaid, the Kara�"bloody-oke, Nigel, Peter, the handbag she had spent half an hour emptying and trying to clean before shoving it to the bottom of the bin.  Her head felt as though it was being held in a clamp, her eyes crushed into painful little slits, her stomach churned alarmingly, and the bathroom mirror told her she should never ever do that again.  She was so glad it was Saturday.  It would give her time to recover.  Recover and reflect.  Yes, that’s what she would do.  When her head had been released from the clamp.

 

By the time Sunday morning came Dorothy had made her decision.  Her headache had almost gone, helped along by almost a whole pack of Anadin Extra, she had applied a full face and her eyes were now open �" in every sense. She was a strong, independent woman. She was putting an end to this ridiculous relationship.  Relationship? Dorothy laughed aloud.  What was she thinking?  Was this what they meant when they talked about mid-life crisis?  Well, call it what you like, it was stopping right now.  No more emails, no more meetings in seedy little pubs, no more throwing up in her handbag.  Peter was the one who mattered.  They had been married for twenty-two years for God’s sake.  You didn’t just throw away twenty-two years of happy………Dorothy frowned and cast her eyes to the ceiling…..of marriage just like that.  Even if it was a sham.  Perhaps a holiday would help.  Or at least one of those city breaks. York or Chester, they were both nice.  And what about the kids?  They would be horrified if they knew what had been going on.  They might be sulky and demanding but they didn’t deserve this.   No, thought Dorothy, looking up and catching sight of the photo of the four of them that hung above the mantlepiece, it ends now.  She stood up, straightened her back and marched purposefully towards the kitchen.

 

Peter and Dorothy ate their Sunday lunch in silence.  Dorothy stole glances at Peter, between mouthfuls of chicken and peas.  There was no animosity, as far as she could establish, it was just that Peter was never the most talkative of men (unless he was arguing with the TV).  Habitually, every conversation was instigated by Dorothy, who couldn’t bear silence.  She realised this was probably to Peter’s constant irritation and boredom, but she didn’t care.  Today, with the last remaining hammerings in her head, the silence was welcome.  For once she hadn’t argued when Paul had shouted down the stairs that he needed this lie-in and would eat later!  She thought she detected a stunned silence but of course she couldn’t be sure.  Lisa hadn’t been seen since the previous evening, when she had stuck her head round the living room door and yelled, “See you later!” before tottering down the path in a pair of heels that defied description and a skirt that Dorothy considered obscene.  Dorothy had bitten her tongue and distracted Peter by agreeing with his diatribe against their local MP, holding forth about the importance of adhering to the speed limit, while cars sped down the dual carriageway in the background.

 

Peter picked up his dessert spoon and tilted his plate.  Dorothy gritted her teeth and stifled a sigh.  Why did he have to do that?  It’s not soup, it’s gravy. Leave the ruddy gravy, leave it. 

“Mmmm,” said Peter, “lovely.”

He licked the spoon and put it back on the table.  Dorothy bit her lip. She looked away. 

“Pudding?” she said to the wall.

 

Dorothy wasn’t looking forward to Monday morning.  She decided the best tactic would be nonchalance. She was a woman of the world. Yes, she and Nigel had been out for the evening �" Dorothy swallowed �" but that’s all it had been �" a drink with a colleague.  That was all, nothing more, nothing less.  And it certainly wouldn’t be happening again, not after she had had the whole weekend to think about it.  Had she been completely mad?  Dorothy slipped her nightie over her head and turned off the landing light. An eerie green glow from the spare room lit up the landing. Dorothy realised with a start that the computer had been on all weekend and she hadn’t been near it.  She hesitated by the door, then, hearing a loud, rather dramatic snore from her bedroom, padded across the spare room and wiggled the mouse.  Nigel’s email was near the bottom of the page.  Dorothy felt her stomach do a little nervous flip.  She highlighted the email and pointed the cursor at delete.  Just do it, she muttered to herself, while the cursor quivered and fluttered.  Dorothy sat down and watched as the email opened in a new page.  She hated herself.  No willpower, and far too nosy.  She read the email twice, then once more to check whether she felt good or bad about it.  All very jokey �" what a night, must do it again (again? thought Dorothy, aghast) sort of thing.  Enjoyed ya (eww) company, pity about overdoing the booze, hope ya got back OK…..Lookin 4wd to c u Mon.  Half a dozen kisses.  Dorothy sighed and switched off the computer.  She tiptoed into the bedroom and pulled back the covers to discover Peter’s arm flung across her side of the bed.  He had a silly half smile on his face and made a pathetic attempt to squeeze her bottom as Dorothy wearily lowered herself onto the mattress.

 

Nigel was not at his desk when Dorothy arrived at work the following morning.  This threw her slightly, as she had been practising her nonchalant look all the way down the A46.  She sat down on the swivel chair and was surprised at the sudden feeling of ant-climax that overwhelmed her.  The double Ds’ were whispering and giggling, their heads down and almost touching.  They looked up just long enough to nod in Dorothy’s direction before continuing their animated conversation.  Dorothy flicked on her computer and stood to hang up her coat and scarf.  She glanced over at Mr Franklin’s window.  So that’s where Nigel was, sitting on the hard chair opposite Mr Franklin, nodding solemnly.  Probably another promotion, thought Dorothy bitterly.  

 

The email was a bit of a shock, worded as it was.  Dorothy felt the heat rise up her neck and into her cheeks.  Was this aimed at her?  At her and Nigel?  Or was it one of those automated emails that did the rounds every so often, trying to sound important? Was it the office equivalent of “ENLARGE YOUR PENIS”?  Dorothy looked around the room.  Carol was talking animatedly into her mobile phone, her eyes on Franklin’s office.  She smiled at Dorothy, shrugged and pulled an exaggerated face at the phone.  The Double Ds were staring down at their hands, flat on the desk between them, their heads tilted in the same direction. Synchronised staring now, thought Dorothy, irritably.  “Bruised plum,” Danielle was saying in a serious voice.  She waggled a manicured finger.  “Bruised plum?” Dominique frowned, “How do you bruise a plum?” Danielle looked up and grinned.  She glanced at Dorothy then leaned towards Dominique and whispered in her ear.  The two girls burst into gales of laughter.  Oh, for God’s sake, thought Dorothy, and turned back to the email.

 

“What exactly did it say?” asked Nigel. 

“Didn’t you read it?”  Dorothy knew she sounded a tad exasperated but she was past caring.  She had spent the last hour in a state of panic, and thought that Nigel might have at least been able to put her mind at rest.  He was IT for goodness’ sake.  She had scurried into the kitchen behind him as she saw him emerging from Mr Franklin’s office. Now it seemed he hadn’t even switched on his computer this morning.

“I’ve been in with Franklin,” he said, unnecessarily.

“Mmm…I know that,” said Dorothy, “I just thought �"“

“What did it say?” It was Nigel’s turn to sound irritated.

“Oh,” said Dorothy, fiddling with the buttons on the coffee machine, “you know ……“  Nigel shook his head, and attempted a sympathetic smile, “I don’t know,” he said, “that’s why I’m asking you.”

“Well, the usual stuff…..not to send emails in work time……certainly no personal emails…….no downloading material…….no internet…..no social networking……..we’re here to work……serious consequences… blah blah blah……”

Nigel frowned.

“Hhmmm,” he said.

Dorothy handed him a coffee and waited for more.  She cocked her head and looked at him out of the corner of her eye, hoping the look was coquettish but in truth fearing she just looked demented.  All she wanted was a bit of reassurance, was that too much to ask?  Nigel blew absently across the top of his coffee cup.   He seemed to be considering a response.  Embarrassed, Dorothy straightened her head, and raised her eyebrows encouragingly.

“Hhmm?” she said, her tone rising questioningly.  This conversation wasn’t going the way she had hoped.  What was the matter with the man?  Eventually Nigel said dismissively, “Oh I wouldn’t worry, Dot.  They send these things round all the time.  It doesn’t mean a thing.  Somebody in IT with too much time on his hands is my guess.”  He turned and walked towards the door. “Anyway,” he said, juggling his coffee and the door handle, “we haven’t sent any emails in work time.”

“But �"“ said Dorothy.  The door swung shut.

 

Dorothy and Nigel sat opposite each other, a beer and a fizzy water on the table between them. “Right,” said Nigel, grinning at Dorothy, “out with it.  What’s your problem?”

Dorothy took a sip of water and hiccoughed. “Well, I have sent emails in work time.” Nigel smiled, a tad patronisingly, Dorothy thought. She wondered whether Nigel considered this whole conversation ridiculous.  She was beginning to wonder herself.  Perhaps she was getting everything out of proportion.

“Dot…Dot…Dot…” said Nigel.  Dorothy resisted the urge to add, “Dash dash dash.”  This was neither the time nor the place for jokes or frivolity, even though, she reflected, this was an SOS of sorts.

“We can soon get rid of them.” 

“Can we?” said Dorothy, feeling the knot in her stomach unravelling a little. “But I thought there was always some trace ….. or …. something?”  She remembered reading about some criminal who thought he’d got rid of all the incriminating evidence on his computer, only to be caught because it was still in his History.  Or something.

“Not a problem, Dotty-Do,” said Nigel, playfully.  This was more like the old Nigel, not the curt Nigel at work earlier. Dorothy smiled.  She did like him.  He was good fun.  Or, at least, a distraction from everything at home, which surely could only be a good thing?

“You mean we can get rid of all the emails and ….. history and ….. everything …?”  Dorothy trailed off.

Nigel reached across the table and covered Dorothy’s hand with his own.  “Not. Ai. Problemo.”  He combined a wink with a rather strange closed lip smile, which Dorothy decided was both boyish and appealing.  She felt a little burst of happiness, only marred by the increasing numbness in her hand.

“Leave it with me.” said Nigel, with an air of finality. “Now, have a proper drink.  What was it? Cinzano and lemonade?”

“Martini,” said Dorothy, withdrawing her hand from Nigel’s.  She blew out a long breath and wondered why she still felt uneasy.

 

It was just becoming light when Dorothy arrived at work the following morning.  She sat in the car, listening to the news and feeling like a criminal.  At 7.30 Nigel’s car swung into the car park, spewing out exhaust fumes and music, and came to a screeching halt next to the Corsa.  Nigel grinned across at Dorothy.  In unison they flicked off their radios and stepped out of the cars. 

 

“Right,” said Nigel, settling himself down on Dorothy’s chair, “What’s your password, Dotty?”  Dorothy hesitated.

“Oh, come on Dot,” said Nigel, looking up at Dorothy. “It’s me you’re talking to, not some….hacker!”  He laughed and his fingers hovered impatiently above the keyboard.

“Fatface3,” muttered Dorothy, like a sulky child.

“Fatface3?” said Nigel, stifling a grin. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“I saw Fatface on a carrier bag and then I added the three because �" oh, does it really matter?” Dorothy felt irritable and twitchy.  She wasn’t sure what time Franklin arrived in the mornings and she didn’t want to be caught in the act with Nigel.  Ha! Caught in the act with Nigel.  It wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind.  Dorothy’s Sent Box popped up on the screen.  She suddenly felt self-conscious and embarrassed.  “Coffee?” she asked, turning towards the kitchen. 

 

“Sorted.”  Nigel pushed back the chair and stretched his legs out under the desk.  “Oh, that was quick,” said Dorothy, glancing at the screen.  

“Easy peasy,” Nigel laughed, “not much there really.  You were worrying about nothing.”  Dorothy handed him a coffee, and set her own down on the desk.  She felt slightly deflated.  Surely it should have been a lot more complicated than that?  Not much there.  Yet another phrase that summed up her whole life.

“Well, thanks anyway,” said Dorothy, trying to sound grateful.  She shifted from leg to leg, behind the chair, feeling awkward.  Nigel didn’t move.  He took a gulp of coffee.  Dorothy sipped, burning her tongue and registering the familiar muddy taste of the drink.  How many times had she tried to order the Continental, only to be thwarted at the last minute by that annoying little clique in Accounts who couldn’t possibly drink anything but frapuccino, or some such silly nonsense.  It was so frustrating.  She was supposed to be in charge of kitchen supplies, for goodness’ sake.  Mr Franklin himself had given her that task at her last appraisal when she had asked for more responsibility.

 

Nigel noisily drained his cup and looked around for a bin.  “There,” said Dorothy, pointing to Nigel’s left.  She was glad to break the silence.  Nigel threw the cup into the bin and turned back to the computer.  Dorothy cleared her throat.  Finally she said, in what she hoped was a bright but dismissive tone, “Right, so that’s it then?”  She found herself smiling and nodding ridiculously.  Nigel didn’t answer but bent down and started rummaging in his bag.  “Thanks again,” she said in a louder voice.  Nigel took a picture frame out of his bag and put it on the desk.  “Oh, who’s that?” said Dorothy, leaning forward and peering at the picture.  It looked a bit like the barmaid from the pub the other night.  “My girlfriend,” said Nigel. He didn’t turn round.  Dorothy stared at the top of Nigel’s head and felt herself go hot.  She rested a hand on the back of the chair and looked again at the picture.  She wished now she had thrown vanity to the wind and put her glasses on.  She screwed up her eyes.  It did look very much like that barmaid.  Nigel was sweeping his arm across the desk, in slow motion, taking Dorothy’s belongings in its wake.  Like a tsunami, thought Dorothy, absently. 

“What-?” she began.  The picture of Peter and the children, from years ago, when they had at least seemed happy, was on its side at the edge of the desk, underneath a pile of pens, a mini koala with bendy arms and a postcard of Benidorm from the Double Ds.  The barmaid smiled smugly up at Dorothy from a prime spot in front of the computer.  Nigel swivelled round in the chair, his expression suddenly hard to decipher.  Dorothy frowned down at him.

“I think it’s best �" “ he said, looking serious, “if I sit here from now on.”

Dorothy’s head jolted backwards dramatically, as if from a blow.  She felt unable to speak.  This must be what people mean when they say they are literally speechless.  The tip of her tongue throbbed from the scalding coffee, her cheeks burned from humiliation, she knew her neck was red and blotchy with embarrassment.  What a fool she’d been.  What a cliché.  What a fool.  As if on cue and sensing the drama of the situation, the computer screen flashed into action.  Nigel typed in his password, then turned back to Dorothy as the computer muttered and clicked and, with a fanfare, opened a new page.

“Thing is,” said Nigel, with an apologetic smile, “I wouldn’t like you getting in a mess again.  Sometimes these things �" these emails �" have a habit of reappearing.  I mean, really you shouldn’t give anyone your passwords,” he paused, and stared into Dorothy’s eyes, “however much you trust them.”

Dorothy nodded miserably.  The word MUG �" in capital letters - flashed into her mind.  MUG.  Taken for a ride. There’s no fool like an old fool.  Oh God, she was turning into a human cliché. 

 

She squeezed past Nigel and started to scoop up her belongings.   “Allow me,” said Nigel with a grin.  He picked up the photo frame, studied it for a second, then handed it over. The three familiar faces smiled mockingly at Dorothy.  She dropped the postcard in the bin, stared at the kaola before sending it the same way, and gathered up the pens.   

 

The long walk to the corner desk felt to Dorothy like the Walk of Shame.  Resignedly she switched on the ancient computer and watched as it spluttered into life.  After a minute, she typed a request into the search engine and carefully arranged her pens in a pot whilst she waited for the page to load.  Propping the photo of the grinning trio against the edge of the computer, she studied the screen.   Martial Arts Class in Armfield.  Dorothy smiled.  Yes, that would do nicely.