I throw my coat on the floor and get about five paces from it before I go back to pick it up. The sound of Ivo's exasperated sighs in my imagination are enough of a motivator. I push the play button on the answering machine and pull my soaking wet shoes off. The bottom of my jeans grazes my wrist and the soggy material feels horrible on my skin.

Hey Ivo, it's Christian. Your jumper is still here and I was just calling to ask if you wanted me to drop it off or keep it here. Couldn't find your mobile number, cheers, bye.

I turned to look at the little white machine as the voice recording asked me whether I wanted to delete the message. I didn't move. The machine went on to play the next message.

Ivo, buddy! I'm really sorry to hear that mate. Drinks sound good but I need to get Karen off my case first. I'll give you a call sometime next week, yeah? Cool. It's Mark by the way. Well, obviously. Laters.

My hair was dripping into my eyes now but I still couldn't move. The next message that plays is one where Ivo picked up but the machine continued to record.

Ivo, you said you would call me back.

I was going to but I've been busy.

How is he?

He's...good. It's hard to say but definitely better. It's a lot easier, I can say that for sure. Less stressful. I think it's getting to the point where I'm just going to have to break-

There's a clattering noise in the background.

Shit. I think that's Tim. I'll call you back, I promise. Ring my office or my mobile in future please.

I'm not sure how long I've been sitting against the wall in the hallway but it must have been a while because I hear Ivo's keys in the lock. I don't look at him even when he's calling my name in alarm. He's shaking me but I don't respond apart from looking at him.

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

Pointedly, I glare at the answering machine. He stands up to press play. He remains expressionless as each message plays through. Shakily I stand up.

"I don't get it," he says when the machine is quiet.

"What's not to fucking get?!"

He's looking at me like he is confused.

"Why do you look so fucking confused you bastard," I yell and I take a deep breathe which sounds shaky.

"I am," he insists.

"Who the hell is Christian," I shove him hard against his chest and he looks panic stricken. He grabs my arms and holds me still.

"Jesus Tim, Christian Riley," he says like that should explain it. "He's one of the lecturers in marine biology, remember I went to Glasgow last week for the conference. I told you he and his wife offered me the spare room at his place because I wouldn't have the car."

He tells me this like he's speaking to a small child, explaining why the have to wear their coat even when they don't want to.

"Mark is a friend of mine from University, we meet up from time to time," he goes on.

I pull my arms out of his grasp and push past him to play the last message again. I watch him carefully as it plays through.

"Who are you talking to," I ask him. My stomach writhes uncomfortably when his lips tighten into a thin line and he says nothing.

"Who were you talking to," I ask him again. Even I'm scared of myself right now. He says nothing.

This is it. He's going to break up with me. He's met someone else and they're better than me and Ivo is going to break it off with me. I can feel my breathe hitch and I'm dizzy. I feel Ivo holding me steady before I even register that I've been swaying on the spot.

"Just do it," I hiss.

"Do what," he asks me.

"Just break up with me! Get it over with."

Our eyes meet and I can't read his face. I'm guessing he looks hurt because I've caught him off guard. He would have wanted to be all rational about it. Tell me calmly that this was all for the best and that he still cares about me.

"Tim," he says quietly with a look of realisation. "I was going to say break out the champagne. Shit. Oh God-you thought I was saying I was going to break up with you."

My heart is hammering so wildly now that the blood in my ears is deafening.

"Dear Lord, when will it all be drama free," he sighs with exasperation.

"Who were you talking to," I repeat. Angry that he won't tell me.

"My counselor," he tells me straight away. I blink at him momentarily.

I repeat the word back at him and he nods earnestly.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. This got out of hand pretty quickly," he laughs. "Since the solicitors and everything I just needed to sort some stuff out. I didn't know how to help you. I wanted some advice on it. How could you think I was breaking up with you. You're the love of my life, remember," he says as he taps my nose.

I pull my arms around myself. I feel very stupid now.

"Tim, maybe you should go back and see one," he suggests with due hesitation.

"Why," I demand. I'm fed up of him thinking I'm fragile and in need of help.

"Because you have such low self-esteem. Which is partly my fault. Quite a large part my fault actually. And trust issues. You need to trust me when I tell you I'm not going anywhere."

"Whatever," I snap at him. I'm in a very bad mood now and the last few hours have exhausted me. It riles me inside when Ivo gives me a sad, knowing smile. I leave him in the hallway and lay down on the sofa. I need to sleep. He is ignorant enough to follow me but wise enough to hover in the doorway.

"I'll make an appointment for you to see him, okay?"

"Fuck off," I grumble. Not all of this again. When will he give it a rest?

"Well, that was a very unfortunate voicemail," he says sardonically and I hear him leave to go to the kitchen and no doubt make tea. Something my mother would do at a time like this. Eugh, now I'm getting all Freudian about Ivo and my mother. See, nothing good comes with counselling.