On the last day of Michaelmas term, I wake up to a dazzling, white landscape. The grounds at the rear of St John's college (imaginatively called "The Backs") is coated by a thick blanket of frost, which rolls gently away to the distant road.

There's a real festive essence to old Cambridge city this morning, with its winding narrow streets and ice-encrusted gingerbread buildings. Twinkling, multicoloured lights are strewn across shop windows and trees, their glow reflecting off glittering walls. The little artisan market across the street from our college is already a hive of activity by 8am, with vendors busily setting up their stalls. The aroma of mulled spices and Christmas pine trees fills the air.

I bloody love this time of year. It's such a shame Mum and Dad don't really celebrate Christmas. I mean, I usually get them a present and they normally get something for me, but that's as far as it goes. We don't festoon the house with foil decorations or drain the National Grid with outdoor illuminations, nor do we devour turkey or pig products wrapped in different pig products (although I don't mind that, considering I'm vegetarian).

This year, to top it off, my parents are flying out to India to spend most of December with Dad's relatives, so there'll be no family time for me either.

Mum had asked me if I wanted to go. I thought for a while about it. It would have been nice to finally meet my Auntie, Uncle, and cousin Aakash, but eventually, I decided against the idea. A month away just seemed a bit too long. I'll be home alone instead. I'm looking forward to spending whole days in my pyjamas watching Netflix, eating pizza for breakfast, and being able to leave a plate on the floor for more than five minutes if I want to without incurring Mum's wrath.

This morning, I decide to walk to lectures and savour the pretty sights and smells en route. Absolutely nothing can dampen my spirits as I make my way through the city; it's the last day of term and a whole five weeks of freedom stretches in front of me from tomorrow.

"A MODA supervision? At 6.45pm? On the last day of term? You have GOT to be kidding me," I groan.

"MODA" is our in-house speak for pharmacology, and stands for "Mechanisms Of Drug Action". Cambridge University simply adores acronyms. Most Cambridge modules (and clubs) tend to acquire one. Sometimes, this involves firstly bestowing a tenuous title upon the subject, which can then be abbreviated to form a shortened name. Note that this dear little custom of acronyms is rather unfortunate for both the Cambridge University Netball Team and the Cambridge University Music Society.

Willa, who is a fellow St John's college member and a second-year student of veterinary medicine, is as disgruntled as I am. "And it's miles away in Pembroke college, because Jenny can't get a room at St John's this evening," she grumbles. "Why we both signed up for extra pharmacology tuition is beyond me."

St John's is one of the biggest Cambridge colleges there is, which makes the inability to secure a supervision room totally ridiculous. It must have over a hundred rooms which are sitting around doing absolutely nothing.

"This is such a shit university," I grumble. "You'd think the students would take priority, but we never do. There's probably a college Fellow or five smoking Cuban cigars and getting slaughtered on 50-year old port right now in the supervision room we were supposed to be using for educational purposes."

"I know, right?" Willa says gloomily. "You should try being a Cambridge vet student instead of a medic. We're even lower down the pecking order than you are."

*****

After a long morning of lectures and a three-hour neurobiology practical in the afternoon, it's almost asking too much of my brain to concentrate on Jenny's supervision session at 6.45pm. Sadly, as Jenny is only tutoring Willa and I this evening, it's too obvious if I take a moment to zone out or nap.

Over an hour passes before Jenny is eventually satisfied with our understanding of kidneys and loop diuretics. She gives us each a 2000-word assignment to be completed over the holiday. It's a good thing I'm not going to India with my parents; I no longer have the time to enjoy a vacation.

"That was excruciating," Willa groans as we tidy up our books and pack our bags. "Why are we doing this to ourselves?"

"Probably because half the students failed MODA last year and we don't want to risk spending the summer revising for a re-sit? I think I'm doomed anyway," I grumble, standing up and stretching both arms above my head.

"Let's not think about it any more. We're finally free for Christmas!"

I smile wearily as I sling my bag over my shoulder and peer out of the door. The carpeted corridor outside the room seems to extend for miles in both directions. "Willa? Do you remember the way out? Left or right? I've completely forgotten how we found this room in the first place."

"I think we go left," she says uncertainly.

"Are you sure? It doesn't look familiar," I reply.

"Well, let's go right, then."

Two minutes later, we reach a locked emergency fire exit and cannot proceed any further.

"Hmm. Guess it must have been left after all."

"What use is a locked emergency fire exit if there's a real fire? This university is shit."

"This college reminds me a bit of that hotel in The Shining. You know, that horror movie with the scary twin girls and all that blood?"

"Oh my God, what if we're stuck in this corridor forever?"

"We might have grown beards before anyone discovers us again."

As we pass a room with a wide-open door, a voice calls out in a Welsh accent "Hey! Willa? What are you doing here?"

We both turn and look in the direction of the shout. Someone I recognise from lectures, a girl with a distinctive purple-striped bob haircut, is staring through the open doorway at us in surprise. I'm guessing she must be another vet student if she knows Willa.

"Oh hi, Sophie! Just had a MODA supervision with Jenny. And now we're lost in your college"

"A supervision? But it's nearly 8pm on the last day of term!"

"I know. I haven't even packed yet and Dad's coming to pick me up tomorrow morning at 9," replies Willa glumly.

"You've still got hours to pack," replies Sophie dismissively, as she exits the room and locks the door. "Look, I'm just about to go to the bar to meet a few of the vets; why don't you join us?"

Willa looks at me appealingly and I can tell she's been swayed. It doesn't take much - vets are notorious drinkers, after all."Sunny, would you mind? Fancy a pint at Pembroke bar?"

I weigh up the options. It's either stay for a drink and have company on the walk back to St. John's, or bleakly walk the soulless corridors of Pembroke college on my own forever more.

"Yeah, okay," I reply. "Let's get a drink."

The college common room is busy, unsurprisingly, as it's the last day of term. People are stacked three-deep at the bar waiting to be served. This 'one drink' might take a while to materialise.

"I'll buy!" Willa shouts over the din. "What's your poison?"

"Diet coke, please."

"Are you sure that's all you want?"

"Yeah. Mum and Dad are picking me up tomorrow morning and Dad won't be too impressed if I'm reeking of alcohol," I reply. Read: Dad will go postal if he knows I've even thought about entering a bar and looking at a pint of lager.

Willa gives me a thumbs up.

I hang back, not wanting to get caught up in the throng of bar-goers, but not entirely comfortable going and sitting down with the veterinary students either, as I hardly know them. We've shared lectures for four terms now, but they tend to remain an elusive, tight-knit little bunch, often sitting separately from the medics and complaining about how much of the joint preclinical course doesn't actually apply to them.

I'm mentally debating what books to take home with me and gazing around the bar in mild disinterest whilst waiting for Willa, when I catch sight of the familiar messy dark hair of Al in one corner, and my heart does a fumbled triple salchow in my chest. He's sitting with a group of people; most of whom I don't recognise. The only other person I can identify is his girlfriend, Orla. It gives me an unexpected twinge of envy to see him casually draping an arm over her shoulder even though I know they are together and he's way out of my solar system; Hell, we're not even in the same galaxy. Not that I care for Al, of course. I'm not remotely interested in him.

As I watch, Orla unfurls herself from her seat and makes her way to the bar. At first, she doesn't spot me, but when she does, she gives a brief nod in recognition. A few of the Pembroke boys are watching her with interest and slack-jawed appreciation, but she appears not to notice their stares. I suppose attention is something you get used to when you are that beautiful; she must have become oblivious to it years ago.

Orla's face falls as she realises how busy the bar is and she detours in my direction. "Hi," she says, in a posh, lilting accent not dissimilar to Al's. "I didn't realise you were a Pembroke student? I don't think I've seen you in here before."

"Actually, this is the first time I've visited Pembroke, but Willa and I had a MODA supervision here at 6.45pm and then we decided to stay for a drink before heading back to St John's. Is it always this busy?"

"It's not usually this bad. Thought I'd buy a round of drinks for our table but looking at that queue, it might take me a while to get them."

Willa emerges from the crowd of people clustering around the bar, bearing a diet coke for me and a pint of Strongbow for herself.

"Thanks for the drink. How the Hell did you get served so quickly?" I ask, astonished.

"Flirted with the cute ginger boy behind the bar."

I snort. "I'm glad you went instead of me; I'm lousy at flirting. You'd have been waiting all night."

"I'll see if I have any success with him," says Orla with a tinkling laugh. "I might see you later - you could always join our table if you like?"

"Thanks, but we're sitting with the vets," replies Willa, dragging me along with her. "Come on, Sunny. You don't want to sit with the medics anyway. Surely you get enough of them during lectures?"

I suppose what she's saying is true. Maybe I should experience another side of life this evening.

It's soon apparent that when vets get together in a bar, invariably the talk becomes rather full of animals and their various excretions or stupidities. Whilst I find it fascinating to learn about beachball-sized cow abscesses, or pig ejaculate (did you know that pigs can produce up to 400ml of spunk each time they do it?) or that someone once removed a foot-long arrow from a dog because the dog voluntarily ingested it, it's not long before I'm feeling a bit bored with all the in-house jokes and the digs at medical students in general.

Inexplicably, I find my eyes wandering over in Al's direction, and I'm mortified when he catches sight of me looking at him. Now what do I do? Immediately feign interest in the floor, or acknowledge that I've been rumbled and wave at him in a Leonard-like fashion?

My eyes automatically choose the floor, but then I can't resist sneaking another furtive glance a moment later, to see that he's caught me at it again. Completely embarrassed now, I stare into my almost-empty glass of diet coke, finding the almost-melted ice-cubes and ragged slice of lemon at the bottom very fascinating indeed. In a strange way, I wish I had an excuse go over and talk to him. Escaping the current scintillating topic of anal glands doesn't seem valid enough somehow.

Then, it suddenly dawns on me that I do have a perfectly good reason. Of course I do. Plucking up a lot of courage, I push my chair back and stand up, take a deep breath and walk over to Al's table.

"I - I just realised I never thanked you for presenting the project last week," I blurt awkwardly at him, the words tripping over themselves in a hasty rush to get out. "You saved my ass when you didn't have to. It was really nice of you to do that."

I can feel my face flushing red and immediately begin to regret saying anything. I close my eyes and brace myself for a collective cackle from his group of friends, or, at the very least, a light mocking, but it doesn't come. Eventually, I open one eye and then the other to find him regarding me with a mixed expression. The quirk of his mouth betrays amusement, but his gaze is surprisingly genuine; almost kind, even.

"You're welcome. Do you usually close your eyes when you thank people?"

"Only when I think they're going to laugh at me." The confession tumbles out before I can stop it.

He breaks into a short laugh at that. It's a warm, friendly sound with an infectious quality. "I'm not laughing at you, by the way," he says, quite pleasantly. "The actual talk was nothing; you'd done most of the hard work by putting the presentation together."

"I have a lot of admiration for anyone who can a/ read my writing and b/ stand up and speak in front of all those people without panicking, and you managed both. Impressive."

"It's just a confidence thing, that's all; there's nothing else to it. Hey, why don't you join us and I'll get you a drink?"

And just like that, I'm sitting at a table with Al Potter, clutching a second diet coke and talking about my public speaking issues and his brother, of all things.

"But how did you know what was bothering me?"

"I just guessed, based on how my brother reacts in similar situations. He could have been a brilliant professional, ahh, athlete, if it hadn't been for his stage-fright."

"Oh, that's quite sad. What a shame. What does he do instead?"

"He's a writer."

"Wow - is he anyone I might have heard of? I can't think of an author named 'Potter' but I suppose he writes under a pseudonym."

Al gives an amused little smile. "Well, he's not actually written anything worth publishing yet, but I'm sure he will, one day. He's got a way with words."

"I'm fully expecting your brother to have penned a whole series of bestsellers before I even begin to overcome my public speaking phobia," I mutter gloomily.

"I doubt it; he's still in bed at 2pm most days."

"He'll still beat me to it. I've yet to pluck up the courage to speak to any group of more than three people without breaking down. What's his first name and I'll keep an eye out for his debut novel?"

"Oh, it's James. You know, there are exercises you can do to help improve your confidence in public speaking?"

"In order to improve my confidence, I'd need some to perform in the first place."

"Oh, it's there; you just need to believe in yourself, that's all."

"I wish it were that simple."

Al tilts his head and looks at me quizzically. "Do you find you get stressed easily? Maybe you could try…"

He's interrupted by Willa. "Hey Sunny, are you ready to go back? It's past 9 and I've got to pack."

Unfortunate timing, just as I'm about to find out what miracle cures exist to combat my fear of talking to crowds. I look up at Willa, poised expectantly at my shoulder, and I'm not going to lie, it's a bit disappointing that my evening is over before it got started. However I can't let her down by making her walk back to college on her own; that would be pretty mean.

"Sure, Willa. I'm ready." Reluctantly, I get to my feet. "Thanks for the drink, Al - and thanks again for bailing me out of the talk."

"Wait," says Al to me, as Willa begins to make her way out of the bar. He runs his hands through his dark hair in an awkward gesture. "I, err, just wanted to apologise for being such a prat the other week. I never even thanked you for returning my scarf."

Taken by surprise by his apology, I engage babble mode again. "It's okay; I obviously freaked you out. I'm sorry. It really wasn't intentional, I just…"

"I know. I'm sorry for getting so paranoid. Truce?" Al says, holding his hand out and blushing slightly.

"Truce," I agree, shaking it briefly. "And whilst we're on the topic of apologies, I guess I'm, err, sorry for overreacting when you nicked my seat."

"Your seat?" Al laughs. "You're obviously not sorry about that at all!"

"I know, I know. I have personal issues, okay? I'll work on them."

"Sunny! Come on," yells Willa from the bar entrance

"Okay, Willa." I roll my eyes. "I better go. Have a good holiday, Al, and I'll see you around next term."

"You too, Sunita."

There's a lot going on in my mind as Willa and I walk back to St John's. Willa is in the throes of Christmas-based chat, but I'm barely listening. All I can think of is Al and the conversation we just had, and how warm it makes me feel inside. He was surprisingly nice to talk to. It's a relief to finally be on speaking terms with him after this term of uncertainty. Having a vendetta against him was hard work and really not in keeping with my beautiful nature. It's much simpler to be acquaintances or perhaps even friends with him instead.

Plus he HAS got rather lovely eyes.