Some fool sent me an email with this title. Judging by the list of people it had been forwarded from it's a common office joke. Not that I work in a common office. I could have replied. I could have posted '4 years, three months and seven days.' It would have been true, but only partially true. And probably misunderstood. Doubtless there's some kind of joke in asking when did you first spank your secretary. Why? Some of us do it, and some of us don't. I can barely remember the details of the first time. I know that it was four years before the last. Eight years ago. I was forty-three then. I'd just made senior partner, and Catherine had been promoted from legal secretary to PA.
Catherine had been my regular secretary, but once I made senior partner she became the leader of the secretarial staff, a sergeant major to my commanding officer. Which was tough for her; she was 26 at the time, and many of the staff she was leading were older than her. It didn't seem to trouble her though, and she managed her team effectively. Within weeks she had all the structures in place that she wanted to make sure she could manage her new responsibilities – four secretaries, two typists, a receptionist, a cashier and an accounts clerk.
I know roughly how I started spanking her. It started as a joke. A joke about her new responsibilities, and how I retained my right to discipline my personal assistant as I saw fit. We'd flirted before, but not in any serious fashion. Maybe that day we were both conscious of our respective situations. She would make jokes about her marriage to a man who spent more time working on his motorbike than on her. She might smile about the accidental double entendre, but only with a touch of acidity. And in turn I would allude to my marriage to a woman who had staked out her ownership of the back bedroom and its single bed as soon as our second son had been born.
Until that first time, though, I'd seen the flirtation as being a sign of two people offering each other affectionate and good-humoured comfort. But that day, though, somehow a line was crossed. Somehow she interpreted my jocular manner as a sign of intention. Somehow she decided she wanted to cross that line too. So she ended up bent over my desk, tights and panties around her knees, receiving six tentative slaps on her buttocks. I didn't know what to do next, so left her there and went to sit in my armchair at the corner of the room. I can't honestly say I remembered her adjusting her dress or leaving the office.
Life can take you by surprise like that. Banal, I know, but true. How on earth did it happen? What did it mean? I thought of little else all weekend. I took the boys to rugby, and stood on the touchline, wondering what would have happened if I'd attempted sex with her. I couldn't close my mind to the picture of her, the curve of her buttocks, the line of her thighs, smooth and toned, pale but healthy. The pictures in my mind were super real, clearer and sharper than anything I've seen in real life.
Real life, of course, has a habit of getting in the way. Real life being a stint in the magistrates court on Monday morning, three summary cases, a bail application and anything else that needed a qualified duty solicitor. Throw in an emergency call to the county court for a matrimonial case gone bad, and you can safely say I wasn't easy to contact. And yes, I did get the irony that I was in the county court trying to sort out a warring couple who couldn't live together any more while wondering if I was going to have the chance to commit adultery with my PA.
On Tuesday I was back in the office, and alternately embarrassed and standoffish as I tried to deal with Catherine. Well, it was the reaction I thought was expected of me. So we barely talked all day. Wednesday was no better. Frankly, I felt like an ass. Catherine was polite, sweet natured and pleasant as ever. More pleasant than she had been for a while, if I'm honest. She was less introspective than previously and easier to talk to. Except that I was uneasy. Should I broach what had happened or act as if it had never happened? On Thursday I resolved to try and solve the situation. I did two short court appearances in the morning, then headed back to the office for a run of three interviews with clients. Effectively I wasn't going to be free till about three thirty. All through the interviews my mind was rehearsing things I might say to Catherine. None of them sounded sincere, or appropriate. And, as it proved, all the fretting and thinking was unnecessary.
Catherine brought my diary for Friday through, and put it on the desk. Between four and five there was a blank spot. I looked up at her. She looked away, as if there was something fascinating on the wall of the office. "I thought, after last week, you might want to keep the last hour free for staff discussions... so we can sort out any issues..." I was left, if not open mouthed, at least more than a little surprised. "So you think that, instead of letting things just happen, we need to structure those discussions a little more?" Her attention switched to the wall behind me, her gaze focussed above my head ."It's your decision obviously, but I thought it best to clear the time if it's required." And, oddly, we left it there. I knew I'd just been, if not propositioned, at least given a hint that what had passed between us hadn't been unacceptable.
My mind was in overtime that night.
You can't blame me. I was thinking about Catherine's apparent acceptance of what might happen. I was thinking about what might happen if someone came into the office. Except that it didn't happen. The conveyancing department on the ground floor stayed open till five on a Friday, but they were self sufficient. They didn't need any input from me. The family and crime units closed at lunch time on a Friday; I'd been praised by colleagues for my family friendly approach when I became senior partner, and now, it seemed I was to be the beneficiary. Just like the previous week, we'd have the top floor to ourselves.
Was I distracted all day Friday? My memory wants to say yes, that I spent all morning experiencing that slightly sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. But it wouldn't be true. I was busy. Have you ever tried sorting out other people's marriages when you're feeling as if your own marriage, your own life is teetering on the edge of the precipice? If I had sex with Catherine would I be able to go home and pretend to my wife? Or would Catherine be able to pretend to her husband?