‘Have another beer,’ said Deidre. ‘You obviously don’t need to worry about your weight, Tom. I watched you in the scrum last weekend. Most impressed I was. Took me back twenty years to when I played hockey at university. Yes, you wouldn’t believe it to look at me today. Too much of the good life. Don’t get me wrong, Tom, I can still jig about when I want to, if you know what I mean.’
Tom wasn’t quite sure what Deidre meant or why she’d invited him to her apartment in the nearby town after a college meeting in the first place. After all, she had only been there to advise on careers because of her role in international recruitment. However, he wished to get some sort of leg up the career ladder and went to see her with a fresh resumé and high hopes, but the more he pressed her for possible contacts or leads, the more ambiguous her role appeared. Rather like trying to nail a jelly to a tree, he thought.
‘I don’t think I —.’ But it was too late. Deidre was on her feet, stroking her tight fitting skirt downwards and making for the kitchen. Something stirred inside Tom as he watched her. He began to look forward to the beer.
‘I thought I’d treat myself to another gin and tonic,’ said Deidre as she approached the small low table that squatted between their chairs.
‘Let me pour your beer’ she said leaning over him to fill his glass. She sat down and crossed her legs allowing the skirt to resume its original position.
Dear reader. I’ll not go into the detail. Suffice to say that Tom and Deidre, in a dimly lit bedroom, abandoned their clothes and inhibitions. At some point he thought of Chantal, his betrothed. (Tom was too embarrassed to admit to himself at which point that was).
‘Yes, I’d heard of your relationship with Chantal and, of course, you must tell her,’ said Deidre over a coffee the following morning. ‘You can’t live a lie.’
‘I’m definitely not telling her,’ replied Tom, ‘and neither must you.’
‘In that case, Tom, if I mustn’t tell her, I think we can make a mutually enjoyable arrangement. How does the first Wednesday every month at six-thirty suit you? I’ll have a simple supper waiting. Please don’t miss a Wednesday.’
Tom had been racking his brains for the last month for an excuse, which was now taking shape, to break off with Chantal.
‘I feel devastated and ashamed,’ he told her the following evening. ‘I can’t go through with it knowing how easily I strayed.’ She threw things at him, she hugged him, she hit him, she screamed and eventually, feeling belittled, she begged him to stay. Two hours later they tearfully separated.
After twelve candlelit dinners with Deidre, Tom thought it was time to tell her about his sad separation from Chantal.
Harold Roffey