“Mrs. Spencer, may I?” One of her deputies hesitated in the doorway of the managing directors office.
“Yes, come in, John,” Mrs. Spencer nodded briskly, straightening her papers. “Well, how are we getting on today?”
“As in, where?” He hovered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“On the floor, John,” she prompted, arching an eyebrow.
“Oh, yes, on the shop floor. Everythings fine down there. Why do you ask?”
“Why? I’m assuming you havent popped by just for a chat. Surely, youve got something to tell me.”
“Well, yes, I do need something,” he admitted, furrowing his brow. “Actually, I need to ask you a favour.”
“A favour?” Mrs. Spencer fixed him with a keen gaze, taking in this usually dignified man’s troubled look. She shook her head. “Oh, John, lately you haven’t been yourself.”
“Lately?”
“Yes, you’ve been moping about, like there’s some family tragedy looming. Is everything alright at home?”
John let out a heavy sigh, the weight on his shoulders apparent. “To be honest… things are about to get rather bad if you don’t help me. I need a letter from you.”
“A letter?” Mrs. Spencer tensed perceptibly. “What on earth for, John?”
“I know, it sounds mad…” Johns voice dropped to a mournful whisper. “But I have no other option. I need a letter. For my wife.”
“What?” Mrs. Spencer couldnt hide her disbelief. “A letter? For your wife? In what sense?”
“A letter confirming that theres never been anything… improper between us,” he said, his face flushing crimson. “You know… nothing romantic.”
Mrs. Spencer paled. “Have you lost your mind, John? Or is this some sort of joke at my expense?”
“I wish it were. But honestly, the future of my marriage hinges on this piece of paper, with your signature and the company stamp. My wife, Claire, somehow got it into her head that were having an affair.”
Mrs. Spencer sat back, mouth agape. After a pause, she asked carefully, “Is she quite alright? Asking her husband for a document like that I mean, Ive heard of all sorts, but thats a new one. Theyd never put that in a British soap.”
“Oh, I know how mad it is,” John almost pleaded with her. “But what am I supposed to do? We have young children. Claire’s threatened that unless you confirm in writing that were nothing more than manager and deputy, shell file for divorce. Then shell take the kids and go back to her mothers in Cornwall. You know where that isit may as well be the end of the earth. Please, just write the ruddy letter.”
“Listen here, John,” Mrs. Spencer said, barely believing the conversation she found herself in. “Why, pray tell, does Claire think theres anything going on? She and I have never met! And surely there are never any lipstick stains on your shirts from me. Where’s she getting these fantasies from?”
“Here…” John reached into his blazer, pulled out his phone, waded through the photos, and handed it over. “She saw this picture. Thats all it took.”
Mrs. Spencer peered at it. “But this is from the staff awards. I have the same one!
Johns expression soured. “Exactly. Only, in the photo, Im standing next to you, hand on your shoulder.”
“The group was huge, John! There was barely room to fit everyone in!”
“True, but look at your head. Claire says only a woman in love rests her head near a man’s chest like that.”
“What?!” Mrs. Spencer’s voice rose indignantly. “In love? She must be blind. I was leaning in to avoid being hidden behind the bouquet that Sarah Williams was holding!”
“Ive tried explaining all that,” John muttered, “but the more I talk, the more suspicious she gets. Without your letter, Im done for. Honestly.”
“This is madness, absolute madness,” exclaimed Mrs. Spencer. “Are you really so henpecked that you live in terror of your wife’s suspicions?”
He nearly whispered it, his voice trembling, “Yes, I am. Because of my children. I simply couldn’t live without them. Please understand.”
Mrs. Spencer shook her head in disbelief, then pulled out a fresh sheet of company letterhead. “Fine. If a note is what you want… dictate.”
John cleared his throat awkwardly. “Write: I, Victoria Spencer, hereby confirm that I cannot stand my deputy, John Mitchell.”
She looked up, startled, but he waved her on.
“Yes, like that. Cant stand him. And add: In fact, I even despise him.”
“Despise?” Mrs. Spencer protested, “How can I work with someone I despise?”
“Then say: I despise him as a man. And I would never sleep with him, not even for a million pounds. Add your signature and the company stamp for good measure.”
“Stamps in finance,” she responded automatically, her eyes scanning the absurd statement, her unease growing.
“This is pure nonsense! This just isnt how things are done,” she said finally, folding the sheet in half, then suddenly tearing it into pieces, once, twice, thrice.
“What are you doing?” John cried, panic in his voice. “That was the document I needed!”
“You know what, John,” Mrs. Spencer said, a curious smile playing about her lips. “I’ve just thought of something. You should leave Claire, before things get worse.”
“What? No, I cant. Shed take my children, she said as much. Shed disappear to Cornwall with them.”
“No she wont,” Mrs. Spencer replied, her smile unwavering. “I know a very good solicitor. Hell make sure, through the courts, that the children stay with you.”
“But”
“And if you need help, Ill personally help you with the children.”
“You? Youd help me? Personally?”
“Of course. Ive always thought highly of you as a deputy. Ill even find you a superb nanny. Youll be more than satisfied.”
“And Claire?”
“Claire can go see her mother in Cornwall or, better yet, she can come see me for a proper chat. Well talk it through, woman to woman. Itll do more good than any idiotic stamped letter ever could.”
