This is an entry for a short story competition. I had to come up with a rom com to do with a tax inspector. Not something that instantly springs to mind!

Irene glowered over the tax inspector who had planted his massive bulk on her little rickety chair and was poring over her hand written documents. He would tut and sigh as his chubby fingers fumbled through the pages with meticulous superiority. He was like a school teacher who had received particularly bad homework and was determined to point out every single error, just to prove his point. Mercifully he came straight to it.

‘This isn’t good enough Irene,’ he muttered as he shook his bull dog cheeks from side to side. ‘You need to keep these records in good order’

‘I don’t need you to tell me how to run my business!’ snapped Irene.

‘Irene,’ Mr Gordon lowered his glasses, looking at the spinster over the mottled brown frames. ‘The last thing I want to do is open an investigation into this. Who’s to say you haven’t been earning a lot more than you’ve been letting on.’

‘I’m only trying to earn a living,’ said Irene. ‘It’s people like you who are trying to run decent hard working people into the ground.’

‘We all have to pay our taxes Irene, that’s the law.’

A ginger tom cat jumped onto the desk and then back down to the floor via Mr Gordon’s legs. He meticulously and emphatically brushed his lap, lest a stray feline hair had sullied his immaculately pressed blue flannel trousers. Irene didn’t trust anyone who worked for the government, anyone who looked down their glasses at her and anyone who didn’t like cats. The fat tax inspector had fulfilled all three criteria and Irene had had enough.

‘Don’t you say nothing about my cats,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve already had Health and Safety on my back about that. They stay up here; they don’t go in the kitchen, so you keep your nose out!’

Mr Gordon replaced the glasses to the back of his nose and wound in his Parker pen before returning it to his top jacket pocket.

‘I will be back,’ he said gruffly, placing his hands on the desk as he stood up to emphasise the finality of the statement. ‘And next time, there needs to be a lot of improvement or they’ll be trouble.’

Irene responded with her best glare which Mr Gordon appeared not to even notice as he made his slow deliberate way down the stairs.

* * *

It was over the Victoria sponge that Irene first met the handsome young man. She thought he looked a little like that famous film star Hugh Grant. He sat there, reclining in his chair in true movie star fashion as he spoke on his mobile phone, elegantly sipping his cappuccino and nibbling his carrot cake like a true connoisseur. Irene had made the carrot cake herself and it was one of her finest. When he came up to the counter, Irene felt a little flushed.

‘Did you enjoy the cake?’ she asked.

‘Sorry?’ He looked surprised, just as Hugh Grant often did in those movies.

‘The cake, I made it myself, it’s one of my specialties.’

‘Oh yes, very nice,’ he muttered.

‘You don’t get many cafés that make their own cakes any more, but I like to add the personal touch.’

‘Quite.’

‘I mean it’s just awful what they can get away with these days; getting their cakes in supermarkets and trying to pass it off as homemade. The world is full of these con artists.’

The young man smiled knowingly. ‘Quite.’

‘Well please come back,’ said Irene. ‘It will be chocolate cake tomorrow.’

‘I think I might just do that,’ said Hugh Grant. ‘It’s always a pleasure to see people taking a pride in their business.’

Irene looked over the counter, scanning the room for eavesdroppers.

‘I think some people could take a leaf out of your book,’ she said conspiratorially.

‘Oh well – ‘

‘I mean there’s been this awful tax inspector looking over my accounts,’ she muttered. ‘Says I’m not keeping them in proper order. Well he’s not getting a penny more out of me that’s for sure! All these people scrounging off the state and here I am with my own business and being milked dry. I can barely afford to live as it is.’

‘Quite,’ said the young man thoughtfully. ‘Well I’ll be sure to return. Your cake is just delicious – ‘

‘Irene,’ said the lady, smiling as she held out her hand.

‘Irene,’ the movie star repeated. ‘Nice to meet you.’

All Irene could think about for the rest of the day was the handsome young man who looked like a movie star and had been so charming about her cake. She was still glowing when Mr Gordon came to visit the following day.

‘Come to check again, have you?’ she said defiantly.

‘How are things Irene?’

‘Just fine,’ she said mockingly. ‘Never better. I’ve been speaking to someone who works in public office and he thinks it’s disgraceful what you’ve been doing; harassing a struggling working woman out of her life savings.’

‘Irene, I do hope you haven’t been indiscreet.’

‘Oh you’d love that wouldn’t you!’ she snapped. ‘For me to keep it all quiet so you can play your nasty little games in secret, but I won’t you see. I’ve got rights and you have trodden all over them with your big fat boots. Well you’d better watch out or you will be the one in trouble.’

The tax inspector shook his bull dog cheeks and turned to walk out the door.

‘Yes, you walk away!’ Irene called after him. ‘I’d advise you not to harass me any more Mr Gordon. I’d stay well clear, if I were you!’

Irene was still feeling triumphant over her victory with the tax inspector when the handsome young movie star returned later that afternoon.

‘Oh I’m afraid I haven’t any chocolate cake today,’ she said apologetically. ’But I’ve got some cherry – or ginger?

‘No Madam, I’m afraid I’m here on official business.’

‘Oh?’

Irene was quite concerned. The young man looked very grim, not at all as he had appeared before. He was more like Piers Morgan from X Factor; not nearly so nice.

‘I am from the Inland Revenue and I have reason to believe you have not been declaring your full earnings.’

Irene was so stunned she could do nothing but stutter.

‘May I have a look at your books please Madam?’

It was more of a command than a question and Irene took the young man upstairs and pulled out the same records that she had shown Mr Gordon. The young man was very thorough in his examination of the records.

‘Madam, it is quite clear here that you have been making more money than you have been declaring.’

‘Really, I couldn’t say,’ stammered the lady.

‘On the basis that this is a clear case of tax fraud I have no option but to close down your establishment immediately.’

‘No,’ said Irene, tears coming to her eyes. ‘There must be some other way.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve been flouting the law and must pay the penalty.’

‘Please, won’t you overlook it, just this once? I swear I’ll improve.’

‘It will cost you £200?’ warned the man. ‘On the spot penalty?’

‘Yes, of course, said Irene desperately. ‘I should have it in the till.’ As she went down the stairs her legs had turned to jelly, her hands shook as she fumbled with the till drawer. Eventually she managed to retrieve the money and handed the wad of notes over to the young man who put it in his top pocket.

‘I will be inspecting again, Madam. Make sure that matters have been rectified.’

And with that, the Hugh Grant/Piers Morgan look-alike left in a haze of aftershave, leaving Irene sobbing on the floor. To think that he had been so pleasant as well. It just proved that you couldn’t trust anyone these days.

Suddenly there was a huge crashing sound followed by thunderous shouting. Irene thought she could recognise the voice that roared ‘GET OUT!’ at full volume. There was the sound of more crashing and the front door shutting followed by the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and a dark shadow stood in the doorway.

‘Irene,’ said the familiar kind voice.

‘Oh Mr Gordon,’ she blurted and fell into the big man’s burly arms. ‘That man – ’

‘He was no tax inspector,’ said Mr Gordon. ‘Just a con merchant trying his luck; I heard everything that had gone on. Here is your money.’

The burly man gave Irene back the sweaty roll of notes.

‘Oh, to think that I was so mean to you as well,’ she gasped. ‘However can I repay you?’

* * *

Upstairs in the office Mr Gordon finishes Irene’s tax returns whilst polishing off a slice of her carrot cake.

‘I’m so glad to have you here to do this,’ she says gratefully.

‘And I’m glad for the cake, which is delicious as always.’

The tax inspector places his fork down on the plate with satisfaction.

‘It’s my own you know,’ she says proudly. ‘Other people just get it from supermarkets and try and pass it off as homemade.’

‘The world is full of these con artists,’ says Mr Gordon.

‘Quite,’ says Irene.

‘But then if there weren’t, we would never have married,’ he says with a smile.

‘Quite,’ she replies as she cuts another slice.