Two hours twice a week, starting after I had taken my daughter to school. A regular income. His house was easy to clean - a large bungalow - bright and airy. The aroma of filtered coffee was in the air and there was always the invitation to join William for a cup and a chat. His clothes were immaculate, expensive shirts and cashmere socks, with stylish snug underpants. Into the washing machine, dried and ironed and put back in his wardrobe. I began to feel safe and even happy at times. My daughter’s schooling was going well, I had joined an evening class, in embroidery, and I now had sufficient funds to live comfortably, and even save a little. But as you see from the heading, it went wrong. On one Wednesday, I can remember the date all too clearly, a letter arrived from a debt collecting agency regarding over £2000 outstanding from a loan my husband and I had taken out before we split. He had promised he had paid it off, but as on so many other occasions, that was a lie. I phoned him. He confirmed the facts. He said the bailiffs could call to where he was living, as he owned nothing there; he had made sure I would be landed with the debt. I remember being sick knowing that all my efforts at rebuilding my life were going to be for nothing. Then I cried. Then I thought of the only person I could talk to, and walked round to William’s house. As I turned into the tree lined street where he lived, I saw a smart Mini parked on the street outside his house. When I got closer I saw a truly beautiful young woman walk from his drive and get into the car. She had long dark hair, a well made up face, and a mackintosh that slipped open as she got into the car quite clearly revealing her legs up to her upper thigh. She was wearing stockings and thigh length boots and I somehow knew she had very little else on. But my mind was too full of self concern to analyze what I was seeing. I went to the front door and rang the bell. Almost immediately it opened, and there was William wearing his dressing gown, openat the waist revealing a penis, that whilst not erect, was certainly not completely flaccid. He gasped, covered himself, and it was a good few seconds before he croaked “Come in.” I had the letter in my hand and realized I hadn’t planned what I would say to him. And then I noticed that the house didn’t smell of coffee, but of that definite post coital aroma: and on the central work area in the kitchen, a half empty bottle of champagne. And an open wallet. I stood frozen to the spot, so dreadfully embarrassed as I worked out what had just been happening. And William looked so uncomfortable. I really had intruded on his privacy in an unacceptable way. He asked what I had come round for. I handed him the letter and walked out of the kitchen towards his bedroom, thinking I would tidy it up for him, but also needing to confirm what I already knew. Ruffled sheets, a damp patch in the middle of the bed, two empty champagne glasses, one of which had lipstick smeared around the rim, and scattered tissues, with three condoms, each containing some white fluid. Three! and it was not yet midday! I felt angry and betrayed... and realized I had no right to have those emotions. William was my employer, but in my subconscious I had obviously considered him as more than that. I tidied the room, putting the sex detritus in a plastic bag, and gradually came back to my senses. I went back to the kitchen, where he stood with my letter in his hand. I stood like a child in front of the headmaster. He opened his mouth a few times to speak, but no words came. And then we suddenly started laughing, and kept laughing for minutes. “You must need a good shag every so often” he said, but I replied honestly: “Not since my husband left me” Silence. Then he took two more champagne flutes from a cupboard, and filled them. I gulped mine down, and he refilled my glass with the remaining Veuve Cliquot. He asked for my discretion. I promised it, and as you will see later, this record is not betraying that promise. (As you will all know, William is not his real name.) He asked why I had brought the letter to him, and I told him he was the only person I could talk to about it. Then I suddenly thought he might think I was hoping he would pay. No, I wasn’t. No, it was my problem to deal with, I had just wanted his shoulder to cry on, metaphorically. He knew me well enough to know that was true. So I took the letter back, and left to walk home, with the champagne easing my mind. The next day, Thursday, I went to work and nothing was said about the previous day. I had checked my finances, and worked out what I could sell, and with my savings, whether I could pay off a part of the debt, and the rest in weekly installments. So that Thursday afternoon, I rang the debt agency. Their reply when I quoted the reference number was “The account has been settled in full. Good bye.” I rang back as I thought I must have quoted the wrong reference number, but the reply was the same.