I knew I only had thirty minutes to do all the checking, so that meant I couldn’t rush it, I had to do it properly first time. No mistakes. Everything six times, get the pattern right.

It was all right.

I made it up the stairs half an hour after I’d sent him the text. I’d not even managed to take my coat off.

When he opened the door and saw me, he frowned. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ I said, following him in. His hallway was bright.

‘You look really pale.’

‘Oh. I fainted in the library.’

We were in the kitchen. He’d taken my coat and hung it on a hook on the back of the door, over his brown jacket. He looked smarter today, I guess he hadn’t had time to get changed out of his work clothes: dark grey smart trousers and a blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. ‘You fainted? How come?’ He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs for me to sit on.

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t eat enough today, or I’m just tired, or something.’

‘You’re staying for supper, then,’ he said.

‘No – I mean – I wasn’t hinting or anything –’

‘You’re staying for supper.’

He was stirring soup on the hob that smelled home-made. While he did that he made tea, even though I really wanted to make it myself, just to be sure it was right. He was busy stirring mugs and adding milk and chatting away about how mad his week had been. And something about how he’d found a really good shop four streets away that sold spices that he’d not seen anywhere else.

I got my mug of tea and, like last time, it wasn’t too bad at all. Certainly drinkable.

He got some bread rolls out of a paper bag and put them in the oven to warm through. I watched the way he moved in his kitchen, feeling drowsy. It hadn’t escaped my attention that he hadn’t mentioned OCD once.

‘Thanks again for all that stuff you left for me. It was really interesting.’

He stopped what he was doing and looked at me. For a moment it seemed as if he’d had a weight lifted off him.

‘That’s good to hear. Have you thought any more about getting some help?’

‘I’ve thought about it. It’s hard, though, you know?’

He put a tub of sunflower spread on the table, side plates, knives, spoons. ‘I know.’

‘I don’t do these things for fun, for no reason. Checking, I mean. It helps me to feel safe. If I didn’t check, how would I know I was safe?’

‘It would be better, though, wouldn’t it, if you could just check once and be sure you’re safe?’

‘Of course.’

‘You know yourself that there’s no logical reason why you need to check things more than once. You complete these safety behaviours because of the way you feel, not because something has physically changed to make things unsafe.’

‘I somehow doubt therapy is going to fix that.’

‘It’s got to be worth a try, though? Hasn’t it?’

He brought over two steaming bowls of soup and put them on the table. Then the bread rolls, quickly, from the oven, juggling them from one hand to the other.

He sat opposite me and looked me in the eye.

‘Thank you, for this. It’s very kind.’

‘It’s just chicken soup. But you’re welcome.’

He was still holding that eye contact with me, expectantly, as though he was waiting for me to say something or do something that would move things forward somehow. I wondered if he did this at work, stared at his patients until they said something to break the silence. I didn’t want to say anything, though. I just wanted to look, to have a reason to look, to keep looking.

In the end it was him that gave up first. He looked down and started on his soup, his cheeks flushed. I chalked it up as a small victory to me. I could outstare anyone, any time, anywhere. A little trick I learned in the hospital.

The soup was good, incredible in fact. I felt warm from the inside, and the more I ate, the more I was aware of how hungry I had been. ‘When’s the last time you ate?’ he asked, when I used the last of my bread to collect the final bit of soup from the bottom of the bowl.

‘I can’t remember. I doubt it was that long ago.’

‘Do you want me to make some more?’

‘No, really, it’s fine. Thank you.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

The sudden change of subject put me off guard. ‘Come with me? Where to?’

‘To see your GP. Not in with you of course, but I’ll come with you to the surgery. Would that help? Bit of moral support?’

‘No, thanks,’ I said, not looking at him.

‘It’s not a problem. I should be able to get some time off.’ ‘I don’t even have a GP, Stuart. I’ve never bothered registering with one since I moved down here.’

I stood, the chair scraping noisily on the tiled floor.

‘Thanks for the soup. I’ve got to go. You know how it is, I’ve got important things I need to be getting on with.’ I pulled my coat off the hook and made off down the corridor back towards the front door, feeling a little bit like the walls were getting narrower the further down I went.

‘Wait a sec. Cathy, wait.’

I thought he was going to go on about it some more, doctors, therapy, talking about it, getting better, all of that shite, but instead he just gave me a carrier bag with something heavy inside it. ‘What is it?’

‘More soup. Two portions, frozen. Just keep eating, okay?’

‘Thanks.’

I practically ran down the stairs and back into my flat. I stood for a moment on the other side of the door, breathing fast. The bag in my hand was heavy. I took it through to the kitchen and put the two solid blocks of soup into the freezer. There wasn’t much in the fridge, I noticed. He was right, I should really start paying more attention to eating. After all, I didn’t want to faint again – it might happen at work.

I checked the flat, but my heart wasn’t in it. I kept thinking about Stuart. I’d been very rude, walking out on him like that. It wasn’t something I could really help. I can’t take pressure.

I don’t trust doctors any more, not after what happened in the hospital. If I start giving in to them, if I start looking for help, it might just happen all over again, just when I’ve started to make progress, just when I’ve got a job and a flat and a life, of a sort. Stuart sees me as I am now: someone who spends so much time fiddling with the front door that she forgets to eat, someone who faints in the library, someone who can’t take any sort of confrontation or advice.

He didn’t see me as I was then. He doesn’t know how far I’ve come with this already.