Chapter 1

"It's never too late," Sir Paul stated emphatically as I sat across the expanse of his mahogany desk, feeling like a disappointed schoolboy facing an irate parent after failing to achieve the expected results in the end-of-term exams.

Professor Sir Paul Sheridan, proprietor and managing director of Sheridan Consulting, stared me squarely in the eye, almost challenging me not to accept his suggestion.

I was already edgy, having recently had the temerity to apply for the post of technical director, a position vacated several months earlier when the previous occupant of the job had departed to explore alternate avenues of employment.

"I don't know," I confessed, "it's been many years since I was last at school."

After completing 'A' levels, I'd left school at eighteen to pursue a career in the British Army, much to the exasperation of my parents. The Royal Engineers had given me a deep understanding of mechanics, and even provided a fairly comprehensive introduction into the arcane mysteries of the electronics and software that formed a fundamental part of modern warfare systems. Leaving the services in my mid-twenties, I'd joined Sheridan Consulting during its formative years to eventually become one of its chief project engineers.

"Universities are nothing like school, Peter," Sheridan replied. "They're the bastion of the academic establishment; their teaching is the foundation of all good business."

Whilst I respected Sir Paul as a boss, his assertion that three years of study could in any way compensate for fifteen years of relevant experience left me slightly chagrined. Over the past few years, I'd had the dubious honour of interviewing newly graduated applicants and, other than the few notable exceptions, would not have employed any of them in more than a rudimentary capacity. Many possessed tenuous numeracy skills and seemed to have little awareness of anything outside their chosen area of study. Sir Paul however, a renowned academic before his foray into the commercial world, was of a mindset that firmly believed the fallacy that a first class honours degree from a 'red brick' university was an absolute guarantee of suitability, despite all evidence to the contrary. Even several bad experiences had failed to dispel the myth that education surpasses experience.

All the company directors had degrees, mostly masters, in one field or another. Sir Paul had an unwritten rule that a seat at the top table was not awarded without some form of suitable qualification. On his business card the letters after his name needed a line all to themselves; something I'm sure he believed impressed his potential clients. I was on first name terms with most of the people responsible for placing work with the firm, dealing with all matters from contract negotiation to drafting technical specifications. Only the final signing on the dotted line was left to the directors. I felt that I did all the hard graft whilst others took the recognition for my efforts.

"Well?"

"I need to think about it sir," I replied. "It's a pretty big step."

"You can continue to work on projects between terms," he informed me. "We'll meet the cost of all your fees and keep you on full salary for the duration of the course."

"That's very generous, Sir Paul. It's just the workload that worries me the most."

I feared not only the workload, but the prospect of having to learn countless quantities of unfathomable information, competing head-on with those that had spent the last umpteen years soaking up whatever fad syllabus the government last dreamt up.

"Go home, talk about it with Vanessa, and give me an answer as soon as you're ready. I have several contacts within Imperial's engineering faculty. I'm confident I can pull a few strings and get you enrolled for the upcoming academic year."

It was already early August and I suspected it would be no mean feat to circumvent all the red tape and process my application within the six weeks before the term commenced. Sir Paul rarely boasted, so I assumed, by one means or another, it would happen.

We chatted briefly about the progress of ongoing projects, and who would shepherd them to completion in my absence. With that concluded, I left his office, pausing to smile tentatively at Janice Flowers, Sir Paul's personal assistant.

Janice was fifty years old, matronly, and a solid administrator, compensating for Sir Paul's often scatterbrained approach to organisation. Over the years, we'd developed a healthy rapport with both of us firmly believing the company would fall into disarray without us.

"Did he give you a hard time?" she asked sympathetically.

"He wants to send me back to bloody school," I complained. "Twelve years working for the firm in one capacity or another, and I can't advance any further without a meaningless piece of paper to say I can do what I'm already doing."

Janice nodded. "He's a bit of a stickler in that regard. I tried putting in my two-penneth for what it's worth, but he's absolutely adamant."

"Thanks for trying, Janice."

"You'd think he'd be open to change, particularly after what happened with Richard."

Until last February, Doctor Richard Penrose was technical director, until he left to set up his own consultancy in direct competition. Sir Paul was rumoured to be furious at what he saw as an outright betrayal; however, lax contractual arrangements had denied him the possibility of seeking redress using the law to prevent the man appropriating a number of choice clients.

A few members of our engineering staff departed to join him, but fortunately nobody that, in my honest opinion, was crucial to our operation. Of those that left, one man came crawling back two months later, and I graciously allowed him to return to the fold. The horror stories that he brought back supported my own decision to reject Richard's offer of employment, despite the increase in salary involved. I suspected that even his competitive rates would not save him from extinction in the long term.

I synchronised my laptop with the server and prepared to return home to discuss the matter with Vanessa, my wife of almost nine years. Vanessa taught full time at the local primary school, concentrating on reception and early school years. She had recently been appointed deputy head of the lower school and also represented the school on the board of the local education authority. It kept her busy; too busy she said to consider the possibility of starting our own family. This was a subject of disagreement between the two of us.

Coming from a relatively large family, three sisters and a brother, it was a source of great disappointment to all that I had yet to produce offspring. All my siblings had well developed families that brought the combined count of nephews and nieces well into double figures. Friendly jibes as to when I would be adding to the tally produced profound unhappiness on my part but only indifference from my wife, who feared taking a career break would hamper her ultimate goal of attaining headship.

Vanessa was already at home when I arrived. A large pile of paperwork was strewn out on a side table for later in the evening. Delicious cooking aromas fanned through from the kitchen, aromatic spices hinting at the curry to come.

"How did it go?" she asked with concern as she noted my sullen expression.

"He wants me to go back to college, probably in the city."

"It seems silly. You've been with them for nearly a dozen years. You'd think he could compromise, particularly when you could probably move somewhere else and put fifty percent on your salary."

I edged up behind Vanessa and slipped my hands around her waist, burying my face in the light brown tresses of her shoulder length hair and inhaling the scent of her shampoo. I rubbed up against her, grinding my cock into the crease of her backside. Vanessa giggled and slipped free, bending down to retrieve a packet from a low storage cupboard. I slapped her playfully on the rump and then quickly retreated to extract a bottled beer from the fridge as she tipped a carefully measured quantity of rice into a saucepan.

Flicking off the bottle top with an opener, I poured the contents into a tall glass. I smacked my lips around the first mouthful of the chilled German lager and then sat down at the breakfast bar to savour it while my wife flitted around with final dinner preparations.

We'd met whilst I was visiting a client and she was staying at the same hotel to attend a teaching conference. We'd shared a table and pleasant conversation, leading to a two-year courtship and then marriage. Our joint earnings provided us with enough equity to put down the deposit on a large five-bedroom detached house. It was far too big for just the pair of us but I viewed the empty bedrooms as placeholders for the children that would one day occupy them.

"I don't know what to do for the best," I admitted. "I don't particularly want to look around for a new job but on the other hand, I certainly don't relish the prospect of spending three years trying to learn all manner of nonsense that I'll probably never use again."

"You could always carry on as you were. We're not hurting financially, unlike a lot of people."

"I'd like to provide better for us. The time will come when we want to start a family and we'll lose your wage. Keeping up the mortgage payments on just my salary alone would be tough."

"We don't have to have children," Vanessa replied. "Many professional couples decide not to bother with them these days."

I kept quiet, not wishing to fan the flames of another heated discussions on the subject.

"When does he want to know by?" she queried.

"I've got a couple of weeks to decide. He's talking about slipping me into his old college in time for the upcoming term."

"Can he do that?"

"He lunches regularly with the Vice Chancellor. I have little doubt. How was your day?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Preparing for the new batch of little monsters plus we're still behind schedule on the canteen renovation work. The way things are going, we'll be lucky if we have any means to feed the kids at the start of next term."

"I'm surprised you didn't use the same building firm as last time."

"Apparently we had to put it out to tender. This lot came in a lot cheaper and now we know why ... they're a disorganised bunch of useless layabouts."

My stomach rumbled and I enquired how long before dinner appeared.

"Ten minutes," Vanessa replied. "Go and lay the table. By the time you've done that, I'll be ready to serve up."

We chatted amiably over food after which I loaded the dirty plates into the dishwasher whilst Vanessa made a start on her homework. I read through the university prospectus, trying to conjure up enthusiasm.

Imperial College was situated deep in the centre of London, a two-hour commute at best from my home on the outskirts of Newbury. The possibility of being in any receptive mood to learn after a daily encounter with the M4 motorway seemed an unlikely prospect. The train provided an exorbitantly expensive, unreliable and uncomfortable alternative whilst still consuming nearly as much time. I dwelled on the problem but unlike my work projects, a viable solution eluded me.

We turned into bed early and cuddled up together. As usual, Vanessa wore a long conservative nightgown that really did nothing to encourage my attention. Nevertheless, I ventured an exploratory hand into the garment's folds and cupped her bare breast.

Vanessa smiled and kissed me back. We progressed through the various stages of foreplay before finally making love in our usual manner. She lay on her back whilst I fumbled myself between her thighs and slowly stroked within her to climax. Vanessa produced suitable sounds of enjoyment until I gasped and came. We kissed for a short time afterwards, and then turned over onto our side to go to sleep.

Sex between us was infrequent and lacked any real sense of excitement. Even after marriage, my attempts to enliven our love life fizzled into nothing and, apathetically, I settled for what I had. I laid the blame for Vanessa's passivity squarely on the shoulders of her puritanical and domineering mother.

Vanessa was an only child that spent the majority of her formative years in the company of adults and a few equally repressed female friends. Attending an exclusive academy for girls, her first contact with men her own age only happened when she attended university. Even then, living with her parents and travelling to and from college each day restricted her social development to the point that when we first met, she was extremely shy and reserved. Over time, she'd emerged from her shell but the legacy of her closeted upbringing remained with her.

Three years ago, the irony of the situation was not lost on me when her mother split up from her husband and moved in with the builder employed to construct their home extension. Since then, the pair had moved abroad to set up home on the Costa Brava whilst her former husband, a tax inspector, carried on regardless, devoting most of his spare time to the cultivation of his roses.

Despite her mother's blatant hypocrisy, my wife adamantly refused to make love in any other manner than the standard missionary position with the lights extinguished. Sex in the morning was unheard of and any mention of the usual side dishes brought blushes of embarrassment and a total unwillingness to participate. Oral sex aside, I considered us a relatively happy couple with the lack of children being the only outstanding area of contention.