Fire by Deborah Challinor

on the back wall, near the delivery ramp descending from the narrow lane running behind the store, were located the store’s cleaning supplies, the gas meter, the Lamson blower and the main switchboard for the electricity. The electricity supply came into the basement from a pole on the corner of Queen and Wyndham Streets, then crossed the ceiling unenclosed to the switchboard, from where itwas distributed throughout most areas in the three Dunbar & Jones buildings via a maze of wiring.
    Irene never liked coming down to the basement and, fortunately, rarely needed to. The main storage area was huge with a low ceiling lit only by bare bulbs, and the smaller rooms off to one side, where she was now, were no better. She imagined as she walked down the hallway that there were enormous spiders lurking in dark corners above her, just waiting to abseil down on glistening threads and catch in her hair. Or, even worse, drop down the back of her blouse. It was the most unromantic place she could imagine for a liaison, but then she and Vince didn’t have a lot of choice.
    Irene and Vince. She tried it out a couple of times in her head, quite liking the sound of it. Mrs Vince Reynolds. No, she’d be Mrs Irene Reynolds, because she was a modern woman. It sounded a lot classier than Irene Baxter. Not that it mattered, because she didn’t want to marry Vince, and there was the small matter of her already being married. And accountants probably made a lot more money than floor-walkers, even in posh shops like Dunbar & Jones.
    Something touched her shoulder and she nearly screamed.
    ‘Vince, you sod!’
    Vince was genuinely apologetic this time. ‘Sorry, honey, but you went straight past. We’re in here.’
    He turned her into a small room stacked almost to the ceiling with cardboard boxes, folded trestle tables and a five-foot high, pale pink papier mâché egg left over from that year’s Easter window displays. The single bulb was quite bright in here, casting a harsh yellow light everywhere except in the corners.
    ‘Nice,’ Irene remarked, looking around.
    ‘Best I could do,’ Vince said. ‘Should I have brought a mattress in?’
    ‘A mattress? What for?’ Irene had already made up her mind that she wasn’t going to be doing anything requiring a mattress.
    Vince said, ‘Well, you know, to lie on.’ He added quickly, ‘Not that I’m assuming anything, of course. It was just if we wanted a bit of a cuddle.’
    Irene lowered her head slightly, tilted it and looked up at him through her thick, black eyelashes. ‘Mr Reynolds, I was hoping that if we were to have…a cuddle, it would be in a much more salubrious place than this. I think I’m worth that.’
    ‘Oh, you are, darling, you most certainly are,’ Vince agreed fervently, though his hopes for something more than just a kiss and a cuddle had just been severely dented. But he loved it when Irene used clever words—she was such an intoxicating mixture of brains and sex appeal. And he especially loved it when she called him Mr Reynolds; it made him feel so in command and, well, virile.
    ‘And we’ve only got half an hour,’ Irene pointed out. ‘I have to be back at work at one.’
    Vince thought they could achieve quite a lot in half an hour, but didn’t say so. ‘Well, we’ll just have to make the most of it, won’t we? Are you cold?’
    Irene wasn’t; it was cool down here but it certainly wasn’t cold. She was shivering, though, from excitement. ‘A little,’ she said.
    ‘Then come and sit by me,’ Vince invited. He sat down on a cardboard box, which immediately collapsed beneath him, sending him lurching sideways.
    Irene laughed, a loud peal that sounded harsh in the small room.
    ‘Shit,’ Vince said, getting up and dusting off his smart trousers. He tested another box and sat down again, but cautiously this time. ‘Come here, Irene, come and sit with me.’
    Irene stepped over and sat down next to him, perching her bottom on the very edge of the