It's tough being a widow. Whenever I get asked if I am married and I tell them that my wife died in a car crash, they avert their eyes and look away. I didn't realise that I ceased to become a person to converse with the moment my lover was involved in a fatal accident. I try not to let it bother me, but it does. I want female companionship, but have to pretend that I am happy, when it is clear I am not. I hear the young ladies in my office talk scandalously about their boyfriends and I yearn for what they have. I have nothing, I just exist.

It is bad at Christmas, worse in the months that follow. On Valentine's Day, the office was ablaze with red and pink as every partner tried desperately to show their "love" with overenthusiastic and flamboyant displays of flowers, cards, balloons and chocolates. Perhaps they just wanted to have sex later and had concluded that an opulent show of love would make their lovers more compliant. I tried to remember what I did for my wife, but couldn't. All I knew, is what everyone could see, was that my desk was bare.

The girls didn't draw attention to it, but they knew and they whispered and I did my best to ignore them. Everyone knew I had no-one, I'd had had no-one for five years. I tried in vain to see a prostitute once, but as the cheerful beauty massaged my back with her firm, supple hands, my mind wandered back to my wife. On a cold slab in the morgue looking up at me. I couldn't do it, what would my Maggie say if she could see me? Was I really that desperate? I fumbled for a generous tip and bolted from the room, leaving the confused, but considerably richer, student in my wake. I've not been back to "Exotic Delights" since.

Where does all this leave me on this particular Thursday, one month after Valentine's Day: daydreaming about the stockings on sexy women that surround me. It is hell, I am in the darkest corners of Hades. I look, I fantasise, but I can never touch; we have laws about that sort of thing. Some of the girls have moved on from their partners of Valentine's Day decadence, others have not, but the same short skirts and hosiery still teases me suggesting at the succulence contained underneath. I try not to look, and I ignore them, hoping that the distractions will go and focus on the burning glare of my computer monitor. It will be home time in two minutes. I think I have a lasagne in the freezer. Or maybe a Shepherd's Pie. There is no point in cooking for one, ready meals are easier.

With a click of the "Send" button on Outlook, I am done for the day, and reach for my laptop bag. There is something unexpected in my vision: it is a red envelope with my name in flowery lettering across the top. I glance over at my office staff but no-one is looking in my direction. Not one. The envelope smells fruity; strawberries, or raspberries, maybe. I stare at the writing; I recognise it. Perhaps it is Marie's "J" or Susie's "N." Perhaps it is all of the girls, each having written a letter. I check again for them looking towards me, but they are more focused on the bar opposite. It's wine o'clock.

I tear into the envelope; I believe that whoever left it for me wanted me to open it in the office, and I do not disappoint them. The sweet notes of the berries fill my nostrils as I liberate a cream card contained within. The patterned card has a luxurious, velvety feel to my fingers and I turn it over, glancing up at the emptying office. I am sure some of them said "good bye" or "have a good evening" to me but I did not hear them, focused as I was on the randomness of the envelope.

To John. Meet me at 8pm tonight. Don't eat. XX

The address at the bottom is in an expensive apartment block and none of my staff live there. The wages our crummy firm offer, many have little choice but to share or rent, so perhaps it is not one of my staff, but there is a feminine edge to the writing. It looks female. It smells female. It must be female.

My interest is piqued and my mind whirs with the possibilities contained from the innocent invite. What fate awaits me at the exclusive apartment, apart from dinner, maybe? I did not know. I wonder briefly, perhaps it is a murderous plot to kill me by luring me into a trap. I would hardly be noticed missing by my loved ones and no-one cares about me; I could disappear and not be missed. I might as well be a homeless man.

I have a dilemma: do I walk into a possible trap or not? What if it is not a trap? My empty office offers no advice for me, and I file the card in my pocket. I cannot resist thinking about it and balance it on my car dashboard so I can see it as I drive. It's strong, sweet scent fills the vehicle as I make my way slowly through the rush hour traffic. I see a couple of my staff waiting for the bus and I glance back and wonder; could it be Emma or Wendy? I get to look at their toned legs peeking out from underneath their long coats and daydream for a moment. It could be them but what would they want with me?

By the time 7:30pm had come around, I had changed my mind several times; I did want to go, and then I didn't. And then I wanted to but thought it was too risky. And then I despaired with myself. I had not taken a risk since my beloved wife had died. When was I going to let go? When was my evenings not going to be ready meal followed by classic comedy on satellite television and then an hour of reading historical fiction before bed. When was my door going to be locked from the outside in the evening, and not the inside? When was my security light going to trigger because I was walking down the path and not because of some kids loitering on the corner of the cul-de-sac? Tonight! It would be tonight.

I shower and change into my smartest shirt, tie and suit with clean underwear and polished shoes. I have no idea why, but as I drag the razor across my hours-old stubble and open the new aftershave my wife got me as her last Christmas present, I feel more confident. I feel like I might be having an adventure and I am ready for it. I lock my door and walk briskly to the riverside apartments half a mile from my house. The card is tucked into my pocket and I pull it out to smell it again. It's allure is scary.

There is no-one moving in the upmarket apartment block as I wander through the reception. I am not stopped by the guard: perhaps I blend in, but travel to the fourth floor in silence. My heart is beating ... no, pounding ... and my hands feel damp and sweaty. I wish I had brought my grapefruit knife for security and protection but it was too late. I checked my watch as I stepped out of the glass lift; I would be forty-five seconds late. I enter the corridor and look for number 44; the blue door is to my left.

I close my eyes, and count to three; I have butterflies dancing in my stomach. I feel scared but excited. I go to knock on the door, but it swings open from my touch and bounces softly against the wall. I can hear noise coming from inside, but no-one is there to greet me. "Hello?" I call out and my heart skips a beat. There is someone waiting for me, but I cannot see them. I shout again and again, not wanting to step inside the apartment.

I hesitate; no-one is coming to greet me, but they must be able to hear me. I tentatively step inside the exclusive flat and my feet hit the soft springy carpet. It feels wrong, but I can hear the whirr of kitchen appliances and close the front door behind me, letting it lock as it is shut. I slowly call out for the sixth time, and walk towards the noise, right in front of me. The door is closed, but I know there is something behind it. My fate awaits me; I cannot wait.

I calmly open the door to look inside; I have no idea what to expect. I had considered all manner of possibilities and look into the green kitchen, brightly lit and full of the rich smells of cooking. Then I see her, she was out of my eye-line at first, but then she is there. Dressed in a silky black robe with a matching balaclava; she is thin and of a similar height to me. I mutter and she puts her finger with bright red fingernails over her mouth. She wants silence from me. I recognise the fingernails but do not remember who they belong to; I must pay more attention in the office.

She walks over to me and slowly unbuttons my jacket; I protest weakly and she ignores it, before pushing her hands over my shoulder and underneath my jacket and my coat. She runs her hands along the tops of my arms and collects my clothes as they fall behind me to the floor. She has a coat hanger ready and slides the navy suit jacket onto it. I gaze into her eyes looking at me; they are a deep blue. I recognise the eyes but I do not remember who they belong to; I must pay more attention in the office.

She steps closer and her hands run up my exposed white shirt and reaches my tie. She tugs at it, freeing the patterned red silk from it's knot and undoing my top two buttons. I go to speak and she shushes me again. I can smell a whiff of a delicate fragrance on her neck as her hands pull the tie from around my shirt collar. I recognise the perfume but I do not remember who it belongs to; I must pay more attention in the office.

She points towards a door to her left, and her soft touch on my back gently guides me to it. I had not paid any attention to the sizzling oven top behind her, but she opens the door before I can get a look and prods me into a dark dining room, lit only by a succession of red candles that gives the room a ruby glow. She coughs and shuts the door with a click alone with my thoughts; who is she, and what does she want? I press the handles on the French doors behind the curtain that lead onto the balcony but they are locked, so I return to the small table – big enough for two people – laid out immaculately for just one. The light flickers over the white tablecloth and I sit down wondering about who my mystery woman is.