Chapter 1

"Use it or lose it," Phil was my doctor, and a long time friend ... told me. He was absolutely serious.

I'd made the appointment after my boss, Bill, called me in and told me to go home and not return without a doctor's certificate of fitness to work. I thought it'd be a case of pop in, explain, and leave with the note. But it didn't work out that way. The usually ten minute appointment over-ran by a lot.

Phil probed until I admitted my memory, to be kind, had become erratic, I was seriously worried I was in the early stages of dementia. I was also having trouble sleeping. He ran through a basic check-up and took some blood samples, after which he started in on me.

"Right!" he exclaimed. "Let's see. You're fifty-one, Geoff. Your blood pressure is one-ninety over a hundred. Both systolic and diastolic are far too high – pathologically high. You're at least three stone overweight..." (that's forty-two pounds or almost twenty kilos if you're not British), "and you look like hell. I haven't seen you since that bitch walked out on you, but I'll bet you've been moping at home when you haven't been working. I'm not surprised Bill isn't satisfied with your work." Bill, my boss, is friend of us both. "I'm prescribing an anti-depressant that will, at least, make sure you get some sleep. I'm signing you off for a month and I want you back here in four weeks, before I consider signing you as fit to work. You'll be getting an appointment with our counsellor ... keep it. There'll be a diet sheet for you at reception, and I want you to walk at least three miles a day and increase that by a mile a day each week. When did you last have sex?"

It took a few moments for that last to be processed and when it was, he could see I was shocked.

"Sex is excellent exercise and is also therapeutic. It's said you can be depressed before an orgasm, and depressed after, but never during." He handed me a card. "I wouldn't often do this, but sometimes ... this is a number for an escort service. They're discreet and won't screw you over. Oh, and no more than two units of alcohol a day*, and not every day. You know how muscles waste if you don't use them. Brains lose function if they're not exercised, too, not to mention sex. Use it or lose it, in every respect. Now go and do as you're told. We've over-run our time."

(* a British 'unit' of alcohol is a half-pint of normal strength beer, twenty-five mil of spirits or a normal sized glass of wine.)

The diet wasn't too unlike what I'd been eating when Rachel was still with me. Phil had given me some direction and that in itself helped; in the morning I had my healthy muesli and skimmed milk, my orange juice and echinacea tea. I took myself out of the house and walked three miles to a café where I had my unhealthy coffee (black, no sugar) and a slab of parkin. (Oh, come on. Cake made with oatmeal and flavoured with ginger). Then walked three miles back. Lunch was salad and fruit, tea (supper or dinner if you prefer, ) sandwiches made with wholemeal bread. I won't say the weight fell off me, but I lost several pounds the first week and felt better for it. Then I remembered the other part of Phil's instructions. Now, having your partner walk out on you is emasculating; at least, I found it so. I didn't have any enthusiasm for dating games, or picking a woman up in a bar and wasn't particularly keen on the idea of sex anyway. But I knew Phil would challenge me on it ... probably before I saw him professionally again. I rang the number he gave me.

"You say Doctor Sanders gave you this number, Mister Brown? Did he say anything about our service?"

"Not really ... he ... well..." I stumbled to a halt.

"Let me explain, then. What you pay for with our service is a congenial, socially adept, young woman who will accompany you to a party or other event requiring a partner. Most of my girls are intelligent and in fact are financing higher education this way. Sex is not part of the package. Some ... most ... might go to bed with you if they like you enough, but it's not a requirement." She went on to explain their prices. "Most of our clients tip heavily as well, but again that isn't connected to any intimacy; tipping, or not tipping, won't affect ... well, I suppose it might affect our girl's attitude, but what I mean to say is you can't buy access to her body."

"I don't think that's going to be a problem. I know the doctor said, well..." I trailed off, but went on, "just now I'm not sure if I can ... you know..."

"So ... what were you thinking of, then?"

"I suppose a nice dinner might be a start ... next Wednesday?"

"Very well. How tall are you?"

"Tall? I'm six foot in my socks. Why?"

"I need to match you to one of my ladies. If you were short, you wouldn't want your companion towering over you. Do you have any preferences?"

"What ... like hair colour, build, that sort of thing?"

"Precisely."

"Not really. As long as she can hold a conversation."

I passed the days as before with gentle exercise, mostly walking; I carried binoculars and paused frequently to look for some bird or animal that caught my eye. Tuesday night, though, I took a call from Miss Hawke at the escort agency.

"This is embarrassing..." she began, then, after a pause, "the young lady who I had assigned to escort you tomorrow evening has called in unwell and is unlikely to be fit by tomorrow. Normally, I would assign someone else, but unfortunately..." she paused again, "it seems there's something going round, as they say. So I'm ringing to ask if you'd like to cancel your booking, or..." she trailed off.

"Or?" I queried.

"Most of my customers understandably want a young companion. I keep in shape, but I am not young, so I don't usually take an assignment..."

I couldn't resist; I chuckled. "I don't suppose you're older than me, are you?"

"No, I'm not," and I could hear the smile in her voice, "and though I say it, I don't look my age."

"Then why don't we take it that you'll be my companion tomorrow night?"

I probably need to tell you a bit about myself at this point. I am not, ever, going to feature in anyone's 'cool' list, or their 'best dressed' list, or their 'charming' list. I dislike night-clubs – mainly because of the noise, but also the type of music featured is not my preference. I am a little over six feet tall, slim, though with a slight spreading of my waistline (before I put that weight on – it's a lot more now). I shower daily, or more often, but don't dowse myself with cologne, antiperspirants, deodorants and such-like. I dress for comfort, on the whole, and see no point in suffering even when in formal attire. You're probably thinking that's why Rachel left, and you may be right ... but why wait twenty years to decide? As far as I knew we were fine, and then, one day ... she was gone and a letter was on the kitchen table. You'll gather, then, that I was more than a little out of touch with how to go about ... what do I call it, dating?

So ... Wednesday evening, I rolled up at the address I'd been given and told the taxi-driver to wait. The door opened to my knock and a youngish woman stood there.

"Mister Brown? Please come in. Miss Hawke is expecting you and will be down in a moment." She had a distinct European accent, her words carefully enunciated.

I looked at her. "Thank you," I said, "I hope there won't be too long a delay – I have a taxi waiting. A minute or so won't matter."

"Oh, no. It is a point of principle that we do not keep a client waiting."

The girl was quite attractive. Her blonde hair, cut short, framed a sweet, oval face; brilliant blue eyes met mine, full lips tilted into a slight smile under a neat retroussé nose. I wondered for a moment why she was not available for ... escort duty. Only for a moment, though, as Miss Hawke descended the stairs and I was riveted.

In heels, with her hair up, she was almost my height. She hadn't exaggerated when she'd said she kept in shape; she was poised, elegant and graceful in a black dress that clung to her curves. I felt like a lump. But she came to me and held out her hand.

I took it – and don't ask me why – lifted it to my lips. That's definitely not my usual style. She smiled ... she had dimples. "Mister Brown! So charming! But ... are we to be so formal this evening?"

"N ... not for me," I stuttered slightly, which I hadn't done for years. "Please, call me Geoff."

"Then, I shall be Kitty to you, if you will."

The young woman, whose name I hadn't asked, handed me a wrap. After a moment's confusion, I placed it round Kitty Hawke's shoulders. The young woman opened the door for us, Miss Hawke slipped her hand through my arm, and I escorted her to the taxi and opened the door for her.