When I got back upstairs I could hear voices before I even got into the flat. They’d left the door open, something that would normally send me into a tailspin, but after all this wasn’t my flat.

Stuart was standing in the kitchen. When I came up the corridor towards him, having shut the door firmly behind me, he stopped talking, mid-sentence, and looked.

I rounded the corner and there, at last, was Alistair Hodge. ‘Ah, and you must be the glorious Cathy; I’ve been hearing all about you. How are you, my dear?’

‘I’m very well, thank you. It’s nice to meet you.’

I shook his hand and accepted a glass of wine from him, immediately thinking that I would have to take things very easy.

‘Come and sit with me, my dear, and let’s see if we can find some nice festive music to listen to.’

I cast a glance over my shoulder at Stuart as Alistair led me into the living area. He gave me a smile and a wink and went back to the meal.

Alistair was a well-built man, loosely put together, with prematurely greying hair rather like mine. He had a huge belly which strained the cotton shirt he was wearing and sat over the waistband of the brown cord trousers. Despite his girth he seemed peculiarly light-footed, and was happy leaping up from the sofa to go and select some more CDs from Stuart’s collection when we’d looked through the first handful.

‘Stuart, dear boy, you haven’t any carols.’

‘See if there are any on telly,’ Stuart called back.

‘I must admit I haven’t got any carols either,’ I said.

‘Oh, that’s such a shame. I don’t feel at all Christmassy if I haven’t any carols.’ He flicked through the channels until he found some choirboys warbling away, their mouths angelic circles, their eyebrows somewhere up in their hairlines.

My cheeks were starting to feel flushed. I’d only had half a glass of wine.

‘How’s the shoulder?’ Alistair called.

‘Better. On the mend.’

He leaned over me conspiratorially. ‘Did he tell you what happened?’

‘Just that he got kicked in the shoulder by a patient.’

‘Ah, you didn’t get the full story, then. I might have known. He’s a bit of a hero, our Dr Richardson. He got himself between a patient who was getting aggressive, and a nurse. He wrestled the man to the floor – ’

‘He’s exaggerating,’ Stuart said, suddenly appearing with the wine bottle and topping up our glasses.

‘ – and subdued him single-handedly until help arrived.’

I looked at Stuart.

‘It’s not usually that bad,’ he said. ‘Most of the patients I see are just too miserable to move. I don’t often get violent ones.’

Alistair raised his eyebrows. I looked from one of them to the other.

‘Anyway, Al, that’s enough about work. I don’t think Cathy wants to hear all the horrible details, do you?’

‘Did he tell you about his award?’

‘No,’ I said.

Stuart made a noise of disgust and went back to the kitchen.

‘He’s been awarded the Wiley Prize for the research he’s done into treating depression in young people. He’s the first UK-based psychologist to get it. We’re ever so proud of him in the department. Alright, alright. I’ll shut up about it now. I knew you wouldn’t have told her, though, Stuart, that’s why I had to say something.’

‘Do you work together, on the same ward?’ I asked.

‘Oh, no, not any more. I work at the Centre for Anxiety Disorders and Trauma. I’m in a different building. Stuart does the depression and mood disorder clinics, as well as working on the crisis ward. He started off with me though. Bloody brilliant chap.’

‘I can hear you,’ Stuart said from the kitchen.

‘I know you can, dear boy, that’s why I’m saying such nice things.’

Alistair went back to looking at the glorious interior of the chapel of King’s College, Cambridge and I went to check if Stuart needed any help with the dinner.

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘Nope, it’s all under control.’

Eventually he put me in charge of laying the table, although it was a small table for two, never mind three. I opened another bottle of wine, since the first one seemed to be empty. Alistair had brought some crackers, so I put one on each of the placemats, then I went to sit with Alistair again.

Finally, when I was about fainting with hunger and the tempting smells had nearly got the better of me, Stuart said, ‘It’s ready.’

Dinner was amazing. Stuart had cooked a haunch of venison in a rich plum gravy, with vegetables and roast potatoes, roast parsnips and Yorkshire puddings. The meat was meltingly velvety-delicious. The wine we were drinking was making me feel warm, and more than a little drunk.

We pulled our crackers and laughed at the appalling jokes, we drank more wine and finally had our dessert at about six in the evening, by which time we were all completely stuffed full of food. Alistair had seconds of everything, eating and chewing while Stuart and I looked at each other and smiled as though we had some private joke.

I made Stuart sit on the sofa while Alistair and I washed up, although he didn’t stay there. A few minutes later he came and sat at the kitchen table and watched us, joining in the conversation while I told Alistair all about the happy world of pharmaceuticals and how I was busy recruiting warehouse staff for the new year. It all sounded hopelessly dull compared to the scary world of mental health wards, but they still listened. Stuart carved some more of the venison and wrapped it into a tinfoil parcel for Alistair to take home.

When everything was tidied away I made a pot of tea. Outside it was dark and the rain had started, pattering noisily on the glass. It was a good night to be at home.

‘That was a delicious lunch,’ Alistair proclaimed, displaying his vast belly like a trophy and patting it indulgently.

‘Good,’ Stuart said. ‘Although it’s a bit past lunchtime.’

Alistair had plonked himself happily on the sofa between us. ‘I won’t stay long,’ he said, giving me a conspiratorial wink. ‘I’m sure the two of you would much rather be on your own.’

I felt my cheeks flush and heard Stuart cough.

‘We’re just friends,’ I said quickly.

‘Of course you are,’ Alistair said, with a broad smile.

‘What’s the bus service like today?’ Stuart asked casually.

‘Oh, a bit sporadic, to tell you the truth,’ Alistair said. ‘Appalling really, I mean, people have still got to get about, Christmas or no Christmas.’

‘You going to be able to get home alright?’

‘Hm? Oh, yes, I expect so.’

There was a long pause.

‘I should think about getting back,’ I said. I had a sudden horrible feeling that Stuart was trying to get rid of Alistair for some reason. Between us we’d consumed three and a half bottles of wine and the edges of the room wouldn’t stay still. What if he was planning to make some kind of move? I thought back to the night before, about sleeping on his sofa, wrapped in his duvet, wearing his clothes.

‘What are you up to tomorrow, Al?’ Stuart said, trying again.

‘Oh, lord, I’ve got paperwork to catch up on. No rest for the wicked, eh?’

‘Better not leave it too late, then.’

‘Hm?’ Alistair looked up at Stuart. ‘Oh! Of course, yes, I must really be going. Gosh, is that the time?’ He got to his feet surprisingly quickly.

‘I’d better be going, too,’ I said.

‘Well, my dear, I expect we shall see each other again very soon, hm?’

‘Um – yes. I suppose so.’

‘I’m very much looking forward to it.’

My cheeks burning, I found his coat and Stuart found his bag, and then Stuart said he would see him next week and they would meet up for a coffee to discuss something or other, and before we knew it Alistair had been shoved out of the door, and Stuart had gone downstairs to see him off the premises. I stood in the kitchen hopping nervously from one foot to the other, trying not to fall over.

I listened to the echoing voices coming up from the hallway below:

‘Lovely dinner, Stuart, really first class – thank you so much for inviting me…’

‘Great to have you, honestly…’

‘And,’ his voice dropped but not enough for me to be spared what came next, ‘I see what you mean about Cathy – she’s a real treasure, isn’t she? What a corker. Much better than Hannah. You’ve done well there, matey. Good on you. Right, better brave the rain…’

Then the sound of the door, the latch slotting home, and a moment later I heard him coming up the steps two at a time.

I stood there frozen, my heart thumping.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked.

‘I feel a bit – I don’t know – a bit drunk, I guess.’

He was eyeing me doubtfully. ‘You look very pale all of a sudden. Come and sit down.’

‘No,’ I said, resisting. ‘I’m going home.’

‘You’re sure? Stay for a bit.’

‘No.’

‘Cathy? what is it? I thought…’

‘No!’

I made for the door, my feet slipping on the laminate floor in the hallway, pulling open the door. I made it down the stairs, holding on to the banister, fumbling for the key and forcing open the door, slamming it behind me, my heart thumping.

Hours later, the flat checked, exhausted, freshly showered and sitting curled into the sofa, I sent Stuart a text:

I waited and waited for the reply. Nearly half an hour later, it came. Just three words, more than I deserved, but even so, my heart sank.