Drawing a Line

I liked Greta. I liked her a lot. Officially, she was Simon Hardy's personal assistant, but he used to 'lend' her to me when I needed a spare pair of hands. Simon had founded the business, and he or his family still owned the majority of the company's shares. But Simon didn't really do that much anymore. At least not on a day-to-day basis. Simon was on the glidepath to retirement. And Greta was easily bored.

The business had started with Simon obtaining distribution agencies for a number of specialist catering equipment brands. And then, over the years, the business had grown to incorporate commercial kitchen design, equipment supply, training, and equipment maintenance - although the growth was more opportunistic than deliberate and planned. That's why Simon had brought me in: to 'tidy things up' in preparation for some kind of sale.

It was towards the end of a sunny afternoon, and I was working on my own in one of the small meeting rooms when Greta came into the room and pulled up her skirt. She didn't pull it up all the way, but she pulled it up more than far enough.

'What do you think?' she said.

'What do I think? What am I supposed to think?' I asked.

'Crystal has me doing exercises. They're supposed to tone my thighs.'

'Crystal? Who's Crystal? Your personal trainer?'

'The au pair. But she knows about this stuff. She goes to the gym for an hour or so on Mondays and Thursdays - on her way to collect the kids from school.'

'Your thighs look pretty good to me,' I said. 'But I think if someone came in here at the moment, they might get the wrong idea.'

Greta smiled and slowly put her skirt back to where it should have been. 'Perhaps I need to keep doing the exercises for a bit longer,' she said.

The next time that I was shown Greta's thighs was when we were having a casual lunch at The Pear Tree. It was a sunny day, and we had been lucky enough to snaffle a table out in the courtyard. After looking around the courtyard, Greta pushed her chair back from the table and hoisted her skirt. This time, she hoisted it high enough for me to get a peep of her knickers. 'What do you think?' she said. I told her that it certainly looked as if she had been doing her exercises. She smiled and nodded and then pushed her skirt back down just in time to deprive the approaching waiter of a flash of her shapely pins.

We were back at The Pear Tree the following week - this time we were with Simon.

'I had a visit from Louise,' Simon said. (Louise Nuthall was one of the company's two non-executive directors.) 'She's been talking with one of the chaps at CWT. They're keen to talk about the possibility of merging our service operations. And maybe the training units too.'

'Merging or taking over?' I said.

'Well ... a takeover really. They would buy ours and merge it with theirs. I'm thinking that the agency agreements would probably need to be in there too.'

I nodded. 'Yes. That tends to be their modus operandi.'

'It's early days,' Simon said. 'I wondered if we could just talk through the pros and cons.'

'Well ... from their point of view, it makes perfect sense,' I said. 'They get a more than useful chunk of the market and eliminate a competitor all in one move. From your point of view, it really just comes down to what they are prepared to pay. I assume that they will want to structure something around a chunk of change up front and then an earn-out over two or three years. They might even be cheeky enough to try for four years. But I'd try and push for two years. Who knows where the world will be in three or four years' time?'

'What would we do about Gerry's team?'

'Well, there wouldn't be a lot of point in them buying that part of the business. They already have their own design team. And you can't really sell that kind of talent. Slavery is rather frowned upon these days. But you could help Gerry's team to set up as an independent. In fact, I think Gerry might go for that.'

'And what about you?' Simon asked. 'You wouldn't want to go to CWT, would you?'

'I'm sure that CWT will understand that you'll need some assistance in financing a redundancy or two,' I said.

Simon nodded, although he still looked a tad worried. 'You and I should get together with Louise,' he said. 'Maybe dinner. And perhaps you should be there too,' he said to Greta.

At Simon's request, Greta booked a table at The Sphere. I remember thinking: Gosh, Simon's spending the money already. But I wasn't about to object. The Sphere had just been awarded a second Michelin Star.

Louise was late arriving and, by the time she did arrive, we had already skittled the first bottle of wine. Simon seemed a bit more relaxed after that.

The meeting was productive and the meal was excellent. After dinner, Louise had a car coming to pick her up and she said that she'd get her driver to drop Simon off at the station. That just left Greta and me.

'So ... that's how it's done,' Greta said. 'That's how businesses are bought and sold. That's how people's lives are changed.'

'A few more steps yet,' I said. 'But, yes. Pretty much. Once you have a willing buyer and a willing seller.' And then I had a thought. 'Do you fancy seeing who's playing at The Dragon's Den?' I asked. And so, although I didn't realise it at the time, we walked out of a business meeting and set off on our first date.

There was quite a queue outside The Dragon's Den. The Cawley Quintet was playing. I made my way to the head of the queue and told the doorman that we were friends of Dennis Ashman. And just in case the doorman didn't know who Dennis Ashman was, I pointed to the baritone sax player on the poster. The doorman looked at us and half smiled, as if to say: 'Oh, yeah?' But he was an older guy and so was I. He wasn't going to leave us out on the pavement at ten-thirty at night, was he?

'I think that we had better stick to wine,' I said when we got downstairs. Greta agreed.

If you've never heard the Cawley Quintet, the guys are worth a listen. Piano, bass, drums, baritone sax, and trombone. European-style modern jazz - but still accessible. And Dennis Ashman did seem to remember me - although I'm not sure that he knew from where.

About halfway through the bottle of surprisingly-good sauvignon blanc, I got cheeky and asked Greta how here thigh exercises were going. The club was crowded. But she pulled up her skirt. 'You tell me,' she said.

'Well, they look all right,' I told her. 'Although firmness is a matter of touch.'

'Then touch them,' she said. So I did. And she kissed me.

At that stage, there was still a little wine left. But once the wine was gone, so were we.

'And now?' Greta said, once we were outside.

'Maybe a bit of a walk?' I suggested.

We walked a hundred yards, metres, whatever, along the street, and then Greta stopped and kissed me again. There was a doorway. I think it was the doorway of a shop that sold antique books. I can't be sure. I gently pushed Greta back into the recess and up against the door and reached down and lifted her skirt. I remember being relieved to discover that she was wearing stockings rather than tights.

'I should warn you that it has been a while since I shaved,' she said.

'Good.'

'Good?'

'Yes. Good.'

'And, just so you know, I hate the word pussy and I'm not really a big fan of the word cunt.'

'I'll try to remember,' I said. She nodded. And I pushed the gusset of her knickers to one side and found her slippery valley. She was already wet, wet, wet.

I must confess that my brain was in full multi-tasking mode. Had you asked me, earlier in the evening, if any of this would be happening, I would have told you: Not in a million years. But, clearly, it was. A little before a quarter to midnight on a Tuesday evening, in the conveniently recessed doorway of an up-market shop, on a not-unbusy West End street, one part of my brain was focussed on finger-fucking a woman who was someone else's wife and the mother of two. At the same time, another part of my brain was wondering what to do next. I briefly wondered if I should break off, hail a cab, and take Greta back to my place. But then she gave every indication that she was coming to the boil.

And then, in yet another corner of my brain, there were suddenly snatches of a lyric from long ago: The runaway train went over the hill and she blew; the runaway train went over the hill and she blew ... I put my mouth over Greta's to stifle as much sound as I could. But enough still managed to sneak out to amuse - and perhaps inspire - a passing couple who cheered and giggled.

For several minutes, we just stood there in the doorway, holding each other and exchanging gentle kisses. And then I said: 'What now?'

'I suppose that I should be going home,' Greta said.

'Suppose?'

'Well ... I know I should be going home.'

I hailed a cab; we had one last kiss; and I sent Greta on her way.

When I arrived home, a little after midnight, the cat was waiting for me. 'Well ... that was an interesting evening, Harold,' I told him. 'Not at all what I was expecting. Greta. Have I mentioned her? I think I might have. Oh ... one slight problem: Greta hates pussy. But I think she might make an exception for you.' I got myself a tall glass of sparkling water and headed up to bed. Harold followed me and settled himself in while I went off to use the bathroom.

Twelve-thirty was way past my bedtime. Normally it would be head on the pillow and out like a light. But I was not about to pass up the chance to masturbate while the thought of Greta was still on my mind and her aroma was still on my fingers. Greta seemed to have enjoyed her once-round-the-block; now it was my turn.

Yes, it had been an 'interesting' evening, I thought as I slowly massaged my nicely-fattening cock. A surprising evening. Had I missed a few earlier signals? Had 'Check out my thighs' been rather more than just 'Check out my thighs'? Greta and I had hit it off right from the word go. No question about that. But I hadn't thought that it was anything more than just 'a good working relationship'. But then ...

When I got into the office the next morning, Morna, who was on reception, told me that Greta would not be in.

'Oh?'

'She said that she had a bad night. Didn't sleep. Apparently, she went out for dinner and thinks that she might have eaten something that didn't agree with her.'

Greta phoned me a bit after two-thirty. 'How are you?' I asked.

'Yeah. A bit better. I had a sleep.'

'Morna said that you might have eaten something.'

'I had to tell her something,' Greta said.

'Oh. Right.' I laughed.

'Look, I think we need to talk,' Greta said.

'Yeah. Of course,' I said.

'Maybe we could meet up for a coffee. Or maybe a glass of wine. Might as well be hanged for a sheep.'

We agreed to meet at The Flag at five o'clock.

'How are you?' I asked as we sat down with a couple of glasses of a very drinkable Bordeaux.

'Confused,' Greta said.

I just nodded and waited for her to continue.

'Last night,' she said. 'I wasn't expecting that. Well ... perhaps I was half expecting it. Or at least ... I was hoping. But I didn't know when or where or how.'

'Yeah. Maybe I was a bit forward,' I said. 'Sorry.'

'No, no. If anyone was being forward, it was me. I just didn't ... well, I was just surprised that you ... well ... you know.'

'Sorry. I guess I should have been more explicit in getting your consent,' I said. 'You just had to say and I would have stopped.'

Greta shook her head. 'No. You didn't make me do anything that I didn't want to do. It's just that I'm now confused. I've been flirting with you for weeks, and I was starting to worry that you weren't even noticing. I think I'd just about given up. I had sort of decided that you weren't interested. And now ...'

We both took a sip of wine.

'David and I,' she said. 'My husband. We don't really ... The fact of the matter is, David's fucking Crystal, the au pair. He's also fucking one of the barmaids at The Black Horse.'

'Oh.'

'But, as you know, we have the kids,' Greta said. 'And, at some stage, Crystal will go back to Denmark. And the barmaid will go back to wherever she came from. Australia, I think. And we will still have the kids. Meeting you has just made things ... well ... complicated.'

'Sorry,' I said.

Greta finally smiled. 'But you certainly know how to finger-fuck a girl.'

'You realise that we're probably on someone's CCTV,' I said.

Greta laughed. 'Oh, god, yes. I hadn't thought about that. Oh, well ... if it brightens up someone's day.' She took another sip of her wine and then asked what happens next.

'What would you like to happen next?' I asked.

'I don't know,' she said. 'For all I know, you might already have someone in your life. You never mention anyone, but ...'

'I do have a cat,' I said. 'Harold. And you will note that I call him a cat. Not a pussy.'

Greta laughed again.

'But apart from Harold? No,' I told her.

Greta nodded.

'Simon wants me to go to Lille,' I said. 'To have an exploratory meeting with the CWT people. Get a fix on which bits of the business they are really interested in. I'll probably catch the train on Thursday afternoon and come back on Friday night. I'm sure that Simon would be happy for you to come with me - if you'd like to.'

'Of course I'd like to,' Greta said. 'Apart from anything else, I'm finding this whole thing fascinating. But I don't think it would be a good idea. I need to get a few things straight in my mind.'

'Fair enough,' I said.

For a minute, maybe more, neither of us said anything. And then I said: 'You could always just draw a line under last night.'

'You mean pretend that it never happened?'

'Oh, I'm pretty sure it happened,' I said. 'But that doesn't mean that it has to happen again. We'll always have Paris - as they say.'

Greta laughed. 'I should go,' she said. 'The kids'll be forgetting who I am.'

We stood up and there was an awkward moment while we both waited to see what would happen next. And then Greta kissed me. Softly. It was a lover's kiss, not a social kiss.

The meeting in Lille went very well. We exchanged NDAs and got the first round of questions and answers out of the way. I even managed to get across that leaving Simon with the 'orphan' parts of the business was going to have to be reflected in the price.

I thought about calling Greta from the train on my way back to London but, in the end, I decided to leave her with space to think.

The following Monday, I was again working in the comparative privacy of the small meeting room when Greta arrived bearing two mugs of coffee. 'I thought that you might need to give your brain a break,' she said.

'Thank you.'

'Also ... I've been doing some thinking.'

I waited.

'It's not easy,' she said. 'But I think you are right. I think, for the time being, we should draw a line under things. Just temporarily. Just in pencil, so to speak.'

I smiled. 'Pencil?'

'Yes. I don't think I am ready for the permanency of ink. I might want to rub it out again. When I've had a bit more time to think.'

'Fair enough,' I said.

'I'm sorry.'

'No apologies required,' I told her.

Somehow - and I don't think that it was anyone from our side - word got out that we were 'in talks' with CWT and, next thing we knew, a couple of other industry players were knocking on Simon's door. 'What do I do?' Simon asked me.

'Well, you need to tell the rest of the board ASAP. But I think CWT is still going to be the cleanest option. You might even hint that there has been other interest. It might just focus their minds.'

Simon did. And it did. A month later, the deal was done and dusted. To celebrate, Simon took a bunch of us for a rather boozy dinner at The Butcher's Shop in Notting Hill.

'So ... what are your plans?' Simon asked.

'Hmm ... I'm thinking that I might go up to Scotland for a few days,' I said. 'Do a spot of fishing. I've made some enquiries. Then I might have a serious chat with Martin Corbel. He's not enjoying his early retirement as much as he thought that he might. He's thinking about getting the old gang together again.'

Simon grinned.

Possibly because we had both been so busy, Greta and I had managed to keep our pencil line reasonably intact. There had been a bit of light flirting - mainly from Greta's side - but nothing had got too out of hand. 'So ... what are your plans?' I asked her partway through the evening.

'I'm as confused as ever,' she said.

I laughed. 'I meant your work plans.'

'Oh. Not sure. School holidays are coming up. I might treat the kids, take them to Disneyland Paris, and then think about it. The redundancy cheque was not un-generous.'

I nodded.

'Look ... umm ... perhaps you and I could go somewhere for a quiet drink,' she said.

'Tonight?'

'Yeah. I told David that I would be late. He seemed quite pleased. I don't really want to walk in on him fucking Crystal.'

Shortly after ten, Greta thanked Simon, and announced that she was going to pull for shore. A few minutes later, I also made my farewells.

'One for the road?' Simon said.

'No,' I said. 'Thanks, but Harold will be waiting.' And then seeing the look on Mary Bridge's face, I explained that Harold was my cat.

'Oh. OK,' Mary said. 'Not that ... well ... you know.'

Greta was waiting for me just down the road, outside The Frog.

'Right. Where to?' she said.

We had all of West London from which to choose. 'Umm ... Look, why don't you come and meet Harold?' I said. 'You did say somewhere quiet.'

Greta smiled. 'I hoped that you might suggest that,' she said.

We took a cab back to my place. And Harold was there to greet us. Or perhaps I should say that Harold was there to point out that his food bowl was empty. 'First things first,' I told Greta.

'Handsome fellow,' Greta said, as I refilled Harold's bowl with the finest dry cat food that money can buy.

'The lady's referring to you, Harold,' I said.

Greta laughed. 'Well ... both of you really.'

'Flattery gets you everywhere,' I assured her. 'With both of us. Now, what would you like to drink?'

'I don't suppose you have a cold beer.'

'A cleansing ale? Yes. I think we can manage that. Camden Pils?'

'Is it cold and wet?' Greta asked.

I knew what she meant. A cleansing ale is more about texture than flavour. 'A purist might say that I have my fridge set slightly too cold,' I said. 'But, yes, I think you'll find it delightfully refreshing.'

'This place is very nice,' Greta said. 'It's bigger than I expected. For central London.'

'At some stage, someone acquired part of the house next door. Everything the other side of that archway would have once been a part of number 23.'

'Does the council know?'

'I think they might have twigged by now,' I said. 'I think one of the neighbours may have blabbed. Back in 1927. Just a hunch.'

'Cheers.'

'Yes. Cheers. Here's to self-unemployment.'

'May it not last too long,' Greta said.

'You'll be fine,' I said. And then we were kissing. And, this time, I was determined to let Greta set the pace. This time I was not going to take anything for granted.

We kissed, and then Greta smiled. 'I've missed you,' she said.

'I only left last Friday,' I reminded her.

She laughed. 'You know very well what I mean.'

I did. But I didn't say anything.

'The bedroom?' Greta said. 'I presume it's upstairs?'

I nodded.

'You're remarkably neat and tidy,' Greta said when we reached the bedroom.

'You can thank Maria,' I said. 'My cleaning lady. Harold and I ... we just do as we are told, and try to remember not to leave our socks on the floor.'

I was still taking nothing for granted. Had it been another day, I might have had half of Greta's clothes off within a minute of entering the bedroom. But there was the pencil line. As I saw it, we had drawn the line together, but she was the only one with the right to erase it.