The Mistake I Made by Paula Daly

distance.
    I got up and walked to the window. Watched as Dennis’s Rover crept away quietly and disappeared out of sight. Such a gentle soul, Dennis. In contrast to Celia, who, when I’d gone around to collect George the previous evening was blowing hard on a refereeing whistle straight into her mobile phone.
    I’d noticed the whistle on a ribbon around her neck and assumed it was for retrieving Foxy if she strayed too far. Forgetting, of course, that Foxy was reluctant to walk, never mind stray. When I’d shot Celia a questioning look she informed me it was her way of dealing with nuisance telesales callers.
    ‘Isn’t that a little brutal?’ I asked. ‘I mean, they’re wearing headsets, Celia.’
    ‘Not at all. They are so insistent … not to mention rude. It’s no less than they deserve,’ she said. Then she went on to tell me how George had been walking Foxy and how Foxy positively pranced along for him. Hardly pulling on the lead at all, she said.
    I walked away from the window and stood at the mirror.
    The wrong side of forty. I lifted my right hand and gave a slow wave, watching as the flesh of the tricep swung methodically, as though unattached. This was a new development, the first deterioration I’d noticed as my body marched towards middle age. I was still strong. I had good upper body shape and a lean, hard musculature that came from the job, and yet …
    And I’d started smiling at dogs recently. Which was definitely a sign of getting older.
    We had arranged to meet north of Lancaster at a country inn not far from the motorway exit. It was an hour’s journey from home, which I agreed with Scott Elias was ample, and it served the expensive gastro-pub-type fare at silly enough prices to put off the majority of people we might bump into. It was the kind of place that seemed purpose-built for clandestine couples; it offered a refined, elegant environment, with well-trained staff avoiding the usual interrogation a tourist would need to feel properly welcomed: Where have you travelled from? Have you stayed with us before? Was the M6 truly awful today?
    The difficulty came in knowing what to wear. I expected Scott wanted me to dress like a woman. But what did one wear for dinner at a country inn, midweek, in rural Lancashire?
    Tricky.
    This wasn’t a date. And I found myself with the uneasy sensation of wanting to appear presentable for the job which I was employed to do, whilst at the same time feeling hugely self-conscious at the prospect of looking sexy for a man who, under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t sleep with.
    I opened my wardrobe and waited for inspiration. On the far right was a floaty, chiffon dress from Coast covered in tea roses that I wore for a wedding last year.
    Too weddingy. And perhaps a tad virginal.
    Next to it was my Christmas-party staple: a wraparound black dress that was cut too low in the front. I would pull it up high early in the evening, pull it lower nearer to midnight – depending on how much I’d had to drink and who was around.
    Then there were three identical dresses, Petra’s cast-offs and what I would describe as conservative. With the right underwear, though, they could be made to look a little sexy. Petra bought these dresses last year and she’d since lost weight, claiming they now buried her, and I was more than happy to give them a home, unoffended by her comment, because Never look a gift horse , and so on.
    I decided on the vivid green version and slipped it on quickly to check there were no loose threads, no ugly creases across the tummy or stains I’d failed to notice when I’d last taken it off. I wouldn’t have a great deal of time after work to prepare and so wanted to have this side of things well organized ahead of schedule.
    It looked good.
    Attractive, not slutty, and I could easily pass for a company CEO, the type of woman who refused to dress like a man just because of her position.
    Satisfied with the choice, I went to get George his