I was 42 when my marriage fell apart. I'm Tom Sinclair, and I was a senior manager in a large government office in the north of England. After my wife told me she was leaving me for a man fifteen years her junior I felt pretty depressed. I no longer had any family in the area, and a lot of our mutual friends tended to avoid me, too embarrassed to look me in the eye, since they'd all known for months that she was shagging her fitness coach. It was partly my fault, with all the late evenings I'd been working; but that didn't make it any easier to take. I felt I had to get away, and a few weeks after she moved out I found a golden opportunity in the staff magazine.
A vacancy had come up in South London for a manager in my department. What made the idea particularly attractive was that it was the office where I'd had my first Civil Service job. I was 19 and at university at the time, and the post was something to do between the end of term and Christmas, to bring in a bit of extra cash before I spent a suffocating festive break back up north with my parents. Even though the job had lasted only a few weeks, it was a time I remembered fondly. Of course, more than 20 years on there wouldn't be anyone still at that office who knew me but, even so, it was in a nice part of London and it would get me away from my home town and the pitying looks I was getting from everyone I knew.
My regional manager was surprised I was applying for the post, as it was a bit of a comedown from the more senior position I held, but he supported my application and within days my transfer was confirmed. I travelled down south on a Thursday, found a flat to rent for a reasonable price on the Friday, and the following Monday I rolled into the new office. My new assistant manager, Sally, greeted me and gave me a quick tour of the office, introducing me to a couple of dozen mostly young staff whose names I had no chance of remembering at that point. We'd reached the last room in the building when I got the surprise of my life. As we entered, a raucous voice I remembered only too well rang out: "'Ello Tommy boy, I heard you was rejoining us."
I stared in disbelief -- I could scarcely credit that Karen Watts was still in the office, in fact still at the same desk in the same room where she'd worked with me 23 years earlier. When I was there as a Christmas temp, Karen had been the office character. She was one of those people it's impossible to ignore: a mass of big blonde locks (her Dynasty look, she called it), a salon-tanned face that was attractive without being pretty, knockers the size of watermelons, and gorgeous legs that she displayed with skirts rather shorter than a married mother twice my age might have been expected to wear. Her voice could have served as a coastal foghorn, she told bluer jokes than any of the men in the office, and her filthy laugh made the cawing of crows sound refined by comparison.
Karen was over 60 now, the formerly peroxide hair was white, but just as big, as were the boobs that threatened to tumble out of her blouse. She giggled when she saw the stunned look on my face. "It's nice to see you too Tommy. I was thinking of finally takin' me pension, but I put it off when I heard you was comin' back to rock my boat." The three other staff members in the room sniggered, Sally tried to hide her smile, and I felt my face burning bright pink. I stammered something about it being great to see Karen again, and how surprised I was that she was still there, then scuttled off to my office, to the sound of her laugh billowing down the corridor.
I spent the rest of the morning with Sally profiling the area our office covered, going over stats and so on. When she excused herself for lunch I slumped back in my chair, dazed at the notion that Karen was still there. She was one rank more senior than when I had known her before, but I would have expected her to have moved on by now, or indeed to have retired. Staring into space, I thought back to that earlier time, when Duran Duran ruled the pop charts, and Thatcher and Reagan ruled the world. The reason for my shock was that it was thanks to Karen that my memories of working there before were so warm...
I had been given the desk directly opposite Karen, in a room with three other staff members: Ronnie, a sharp-suited 30-something who liked to boast about his sexual conquests, Ado, a quiet black guy, and Michelle, about my age but far more worldly, tall and skinny with dishwater hair, purple lips and huge bangle ear-rings that parrots could have perched on. I was a young lad from Yorkshire, in the big city only a few months, shy, and ready to blush at the drop of a hat. Because I was so quiet and nervous on my first day, Karen nicknamed me 'Smiler', and amused herself and the others by mercilessly winding me up. On my second day she came into work wearing a vest that did little to conceal her huge tits, and I couldn't help glancing up at her every few minutes. I realised she'd caught me at it when, every time I looked, she yawned and stretched, thrusting her boobs out like a ship's figurehead.
Mid-morning, Karen sashayed over to my desk, big hips swaying, and parked her generous bum on the corner of it. Her black-stockinged leg was inches from me -- I could actually see the bare flesh of her thigh under her skirt -- and her boobs were directly in my eye line. The other three all subtly sat back in their chairs, grinning in anticipation of the entertainment to come. Casually swinging her leg, Karen asked, "So Tommy boy, anyone had a nibble at your cherry yet?"
As Ronnie and Michelle almost exploded trying to control their snorts of laughter, the fierce red glow that leapt onto my cheeks told Karen the answer to that one. Grinning wickedly, she leaned closer to me; her half-exposed knockers were only a tongue's length from my face, and her sickly sweet perfume was overpowering. I felt as if I was shrivelling up in embarrassment as she glanced down at my lap and cooed, "Ooh, you're being a bit selfish keeping that tent pole to yourself sweetheart." That was it for Ronnie -- he collapsed on his desk, tears rolling down his cheeks. Even Ado had a broad grin. Karen moved her face so close to me that her lips brushed my ear and, in a stage whisper that was probably heard three streets away, murmured, "You wanna take young Michelle there down the pub. A couple of Bacardi and Cokes, she'll soon show you what that's for."
