"Where the bloody hell is it?" Peter stormed. He opened the curtains to shed more light on the object of his search. The desk. That seemed a good place to start.

​

His wife flipped to the next page of her magazine. Without looking up, Erica said, "Where's what, dear?"

​

"Oh, God! Don't say you've lost it, too?"

​

"I haven't lost anything," Erica insisted. "Perhaps you lost it in that glass of brandy? You've been losing an awful lot of things lately."

​

"Don't give me that," Peter retorted. "You can be just as forgetful as me. That time you lost your car keys. Remember? It was muggins here," he jerked a thumb at his chest, "that tore the house apart looking for the bloody things. They were in that black hole you call a handbag all along."

​

"That's ancient history." Erica turned her attention back to her magazine.

​

"It was last week. And don't get me started on Dottie's party."

​

"Trust you to bring that up. That was another chapter of my life!" Erica placed her magazine to one side and sipped her coffee. "It was something any woman could have forgotten."

​

"Your ex-boyfriend's name?"

​

"Chris wasn't really a boyfriend. Not for long anyway." Erica softened and gazed up at Peter. "Not after I met you, at least." I wonder what I saw in him all those years ago.

​

"Have you heard from him since?" Peter asked.

 

"No," Erica replied, frowning. "He said he'd look me up on Facebook but I've heard nothing since the party. He was never very good at staying in touch."

 

"Good." Peter reached for his glass and savoured the aroma.

 

"You'll not find what you're looking for in the bottom of that glass."

​

Peter drained the brandy and poured another from the crystal decanter. "This," he said, pointing at the glass, "is liquid inspiration. It'll clear my head and help me think about where I last saw it."

 

"So tell me, my inspired genius, where do you think you left it?"

​

"Well, I had it at work," he mused, "and I'm pretty sure it worked on Friday night in the clubhouse."

 

"Oh, problem solved, then." Erica's sarcasm ratcheted up a notch. "You probably lost it down the cleavage of that little blonde tart."

​

Peter ignored the waspishness in his wife's voice. One kiss under the mistletoe and Erica assumed he was in Debbie's knickers. "She happens to be the daughter of the club secretary," he said. "Besides, she wasn't working that night."

​

"So what's changed?" Erica asked. There would be time enough to bring up Peter's indiscretions later.

 

"I had a list of stuff to do this weekend but I can't remember a thing that was on it."

​

"I could make a list for you," Erica volunteered. "There's that dreadful leaking tap in the bathroom for starters." Warming to her subject, she began ticking points off on her fingers. "The spare room needs decorating. The garage should be tidied, there's barely enough room for my car, let alone yours as well. The windows are filthy and don't say you'll get someone in to do it: you've got the ladder. And the garden looks like a breeding ground for triffids." Erica continued her list until she ran out of fingers.

​

"That's all well and good but I was talking about something more important."

​

"What could be more important? This is our home, not some filthy student flat."

​

"I'm talking about drives, motivations, events. I haven't had any of those things for weeks now and I feel stuck in a rut."

​

"That sounds like a mid-life crisis, Peter. You'll grow out of it."

​

"I've just turned forty-five," Peter objected. "Hardly mid-life in this day and age. But now you mention it, I could always trade in the Volvo for something with a bit more 'oomph'."

​

"Out of the question," Erica put her foot down. "You'd be like a teenager on a skateboard and wrap yourself around a tree. And anyway, where would you put the golf clubs? You can't put a roof-rack on a Porsche."

​

"I'm not the only one with this problem, mid-life or not, you know," Peter shot back. "What happened to the girl I met all those years ago? Moved with the grace of a ballerina. Dressed like a catwalk model. Drank like a fish. Swore like a docker. Wrecked my bed like a tornado. Now your life seems to revolve around visits to the hairdressers, your 'ladies who lunch' and Thursday nights playing bridge."

​

"It's been seventeen years," Erica reminded her husband. "And that's just life, it gets in the way." She frowned. "Try moving like a ballerina after two kids. Or dressing like a supermodel when you've gone up two dress sizes." She almost laughed, almost sobbed.

​

"So you're happy with the way things are?" Peter watched as Erica stood and moved to the drinks table. A large gin was the order of the day.

​

The worst thing about it, of course, was that Peter was right. There was something missing from her life and it wasn't just her ex. After some consideration, Erica sipped her gin said, "No. I'm not happy at all. I feel I'm stuck in some frightful kitchen sink drama."

​

"So I'm the 'angry young man'?"

​

"Not 'young'."

​

"Oh. Just 'angry'?"

​

"You're becoming more and more frustrated with everything. You make mountains out of molehills, like that spider in the bathroom. Poor thing."

​

"Then I should be angry with whom? You? Your ex?" Peter went to his wife and cradled her in his arms. He could feel her body heat, the rise and fall of her bosom against his chest, the tension in her muscles as she struggled between the instincts of fight, flight or fuck. There had been too much of the first two these last few weeks and not enough of the last.

​

"I think you and I have both lost something," said Erica against her husband's shoulder. "I'm not sure what but it scares me."