A woman of nineteen with an hourglass figure and perfect creamy skin is flirting with me. Not just any woman, but our nanny Hayley. She has tried it on before and apologised. Now she’s laying it on thick again. She’s pretty in a healthy, energetic, outdoorsy sort of way. Not quirky, unusually flowerlike, and beautiful like my wife. I suppose if I was a promiscuous man, interested in casual sex, I would have already had my way with her. But that is not the sort of man I am.

Saffron says there are two species of men. Shits and saints. Saints treat women with respect. Shits do not. Saints are very much more like women than shits. They understand how women think. They live with their wives all their lives and love them, comfortable in their company. They do not crave a younger woman’s body, because their body couldn’t cope with it; their body is ageing too. Their wife is more than a lover. She is a friend, a companion. Shits really only want sexual relief. Shits, in Saffron’s opinion, are a lower species of male – more animal than human. Not the sort of men she would deign to mix with.

So sorry, Hayley. I’m not interested in you. You are gorgeous. You are kind. You are sexy. But I am a saint, who loves his wife. Not an animalistic shit.

134

Saffron

Depressed, mind and body heavy as lead, I force myself into the office. At least Miles and I have made up. If I don’t have Miles on my side I can’t cope. The heatwave continues. As I sit at my desk, air presses against my skin, so hot it feels solid. The window is open but it makes no difference; there is no breeze.

Julie steps in, bearing a letter. Fingers trembling, the letter shakes as she hands it to me. Ted enters the office, face ashen, and stands watching us. I open it. The words on the page contort in front of me. Somehow I manage to tighten my mind and decipher them.

The complaint against BPC has been dismissed. No evidence of financial or accounting impropriety was found.

135

Caprice

The complaint against BPC has been dismissed.

The Law Society is even more incompetent than Social Care. Next time, Saffron. My next plan will bury you.

136

Saffron

When the euphoria of relief dies down, I don’t know why, but the heaviness inside me rises again. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

‘Let’s get back to work,’ I announce.

‘We haven’t got much,’ Ted replies.

‘Small detail. Off you go. Onwards and upwards. “Per ardua ad astra,” as the RAF would say.’