He stared at her, loathing her. A complete contrast to the way he had looked at her before. All those times here, in this pool house, on these loungers, with the ivy providing camouflage. Now he was all spite and bruised ego.

“Oh, I’ll go,” he growled, “but I’ll be back. You owe me. Not just my wages, but compensation for all those times you used me like a piece of meat. Some would call it sexual harassment, abuse of power. Watch your back, Mrs Whitmore,” he sneered. “I’ll be back to collect.”

And then he was gone, the ivy shimmering in discontent as he slammed the glass door.

She sank to her knees on the tiles, her body shaking in disbelief.

How did she get herself into these situations?

The affair had started purely out of loneliness. She had needed someone to help Arthur with the grounds, since he was slowing down in his old age, and Peter seemed perfect for the job. But it wasn’t the stereotypical rich older lady flirts with young, handsome pool boy in bid to alleviate boredom kind of thing. Peter was Helen’s age, had gone to the local comp when they were kids, and now had a young wife who worked in the local supermarket and a little girl at the village nursery school. He had his own business doing gardening, pool maintenance and general DIY in the village. He was well known and well liked. God knows why. Clearly there was a side to him that he kept hidden too.

Helen had employed him to maintain the pool and found herself chatting to him when she brought him cups of tea while he was working. They would laugh over things they had seen on television and stories of other people in the village, things she wished she could laugh and chat about with Hugh, but he was always so preoccupied with his students and hobbies, closed away in his study most nights or sleeping in front of the news, or just not interested in gossip.

Peter was charming and funny, so when he made the first move one day, his fingers lingering on hers over a steaming brew, she thought, Why not? It’s not like things were hot and heavy with Hugh. The best he could manage was an occasional Friday night fumble every couple of weeks with the lights off and his socks still on.