"Thank fuck it's February at long last."

"Right? January seems to take longer every year."

It's a few minutes past 12.30pm on Sunday and I'm on my seventh - or is it eighth? - mug of tea today. Gabriela and I are sitting together on the worktop in the kitchen at the end of our corridor, waiting for our jacket potatoes to bake. "Kitchen" is perhaps a bit of a grandiose term for the tiny, cramped room with its single formica surface, but it provides basic culinary facilities and a focal point for the four girls who share it, when it's not practically knee-deep with empty pizza boxes as it is at the moment. As Gabriela is the only one out of us who can actually cook anything beyond removing a wrapper from a ready-meal and shoving it in the microwave, a large, well-equipped room is hardly a necessity; it would just have a greater capacity for takeaway cartons, that's all.

Nothing much happened this week. It snowed from Tuesday to Wednesday, then we had sleet on Thursday, horrendous gales on Friday and it hasn't stopped raining since. Judith wouldn't deem it safe for me to ride home on Friday, so my bike is still lounging at Pembroke college, pretending to belong to Al. Lectures, practicals and supervisions have carried on as usual, bringing with them a relentless tide of work. It's another average Cambridge term, just like the last one, only much colder and wetter.

"How are things with you and Marcus?" I ask, thinking briefly of the dishy PhD student who Gabriela is now seeing.

Gabriela immediately adopts a faraway, dreamy expression and she bites her lower lip.

"Amazing!"

"Wow, that good?"

"Oh my God, Sunny, yes! I really think he might be 'the one', you know?"

No, actually, I don't know, but I nod and smile anyway. The two of them have only been dating for about a week but Gabriela is already head-over-heels for him.

It makes me a little nervous for my friend, because she deserves nothing but happiness and I don't want to see her get hurt. I sincerely hope Marcus is as deeply besotted with Gabriela as she is with him.

"Is he worthy of you?" I ask before gulping down the rest of my tea.

"Sunny, this isn't the eighteenth century you know!" Gabriela laughs. "You sound like my mother!"

"Well excuse me for being concerned," I reply, giving her a friendly shove. "He better be treating you right."

"Don't worry; he is. I wouldn't stand for it if he didn't. Anyway, what about you and Paul?" Gabriela raises one eyebrow quizzically. "You two seem to be getting on well."

"He's…" I hesitate, trying to find the right words so as not to offend Gabriela, who thinks the sun shines out of Paul's arse. She was utterly delighted to find out I'd snogged him several times. "Yeah. He's a nice guy."

"He is so nice, isn't he? Let me dress you up for your date tonight! I have JUST the thing that would suit you."

"No, Gabi! You're as bad as Saff," I groan. "She's always trying to turn me into a fucking Barbie doll too."

"You are MUCH more beautiful than a Barbie doll, and you look stunning in dresses."

"Flatterer."

"Truth-teller!"

"I hope it's a waterproof outfit," I muse, as I catch a glimpse of the weather through the grimy little kitchen window, "because it's still tipping it down out there."

"Oh, the rain will be gone by this evening; I'm sure of it!"

"Gabi, it's been raining solidly for nearly forty-eight hours! What makes you think it's going to stop by this evening?"

"Because it has to quit some time! My mother always used to say 'rain before seven, fine before eleven'."

I give her a withering look. "Seven am was nearly six hours ago."

"Well, seven pm then."

"That's not how the proverb is supposed to be interpreted!"

Just then, Aveline and Rhiannon, the other two members of our tiny kitchen club, appear at the entrance with pre-packed plastic salad bowls in their hands. It's really too much of a squeeze for four people in here, so I drop down from my worktop seat and vacate the space. As I swiftly press past Aveline, I fight the urge to slap her; ever since she flaunted the fact that she'd copped off with "Sunita's Jonty", (her words, not mine), she's been on my list of people I'd happily wish anal warts upon.

Bitch.

She's welcome to Jonty now anyway, if she can muscle her way past Leila Jarvis, that is.

I would 100% back Leila in that fight, for your information.

"Sunny? I think the potatoes are just about done. What do you want on yours?"

"There should be some cheddar in the fridge. I'm sure I bought a block last time I went shopping."

"Err, when was that, exactly?"

"About a week ago?"

"Are you positive?" Gabriela emerges from the kitchenette wearing an exasperated expression and clutching a slightly turquoise-tinged chunk of cheese.

"Oh. Maybe it was longer than a week ago," I reply, eyeing the cheddar in embarrassment. "We can scrape the mould away, surely?"

"Well I would, but that's not the worst of it." Gabriela turns the block of cheese around to reveal a missing semicircular-shaped area bearing the imprint of someone's teeth. "Look."

"What the fuck? Who's bitten my fucking cheese?" I shriek, horrified.

"Eurgh, that's disgusting!" Rhiannon's voice whines from inside the kitchen. "Bet it was one of the dirty creeps from upstairs."

"Well it wasn't me," says Aveline sniffily. "I don't even like cheddar."

Yeah, well, if you ask the cheddar, the feeling's probably mutual, love. Anyway, no-one's blaming you, silly cow, so no need to get defensive.

"Just bin it," I reply gruffly. "What a waste of food."

"Not going to see whose teeth match the marks?" Aveline asks snidely. "I'd be wanting to know who was responsible."

"I'm a medic with a very full timetable, not a forensic science student," I snap back. "Anyway, what would I do if I did identify the culprit? Force them to buy me a new block of cheese?"

Aveline has nothing to say in return to that. Instead, she merely curls up her lip like the feral dog she is, and begins to pick delicately at a lettuce leaf.

"What do you want on your potato instead?" Gabriela sighs. "There's butter…or, yeah. Just butter."

"Butter it is, then," I say. "Oh well. At least we've got two raspberry fruit corners for after."

"What fruit corners?"

"You know - those really delicious yoghurts with a separate serving of compote in a triangular compartment on the side?"

"Yeah, thanks for that description, dear," says Gabriela in an unnecessarily sarcastic tone. "I know what fruit corners are, it's just…"

"Just what? There should be two pots left on my shelf. I definitely definitely remember buying a pack of six last week and I KNOW I haven't eaten the raspberry ones yet as they are my favourite and I was saving them until last."

"Well I hate to break it to you bae, but there's nothing else on your fridge shelf except a post-it note saying I O U."

"Tell me you're fucking joking?" I demand as I barge my way into the kitchen again to verify this, almost sending Aveline sprawling into her stupid little salad. I yank the offending scrap of paper out of Gabriela's hand and glare at it, before screwing it into a small, angry ball and hurling it in the direction of the pizza boxes.

"I bloody hate having to share a fridge," I glower, before stomping out of the kitchen and throwing myself against the corridor wall in a temper, to the background noise of Aveline and Rhiannon's catty sniggering.

Bitches.

Minutes later, Gabriela pops her head around the kitchen doorframe. "Food's ready. You want eat in here or should we go back to our rooms?"

"Let's go back," I suggest moodily. "There's no space in there, and staring at Fuckface whilst I eat is a sure way to put me off my lunch. Can't afford to waste food at the rate it's getting ruined or stolen."

"It's so out of order," says Gabriela with a frown. "Someone stole my melon medley last week and I'm having to buy a LOT more milk than I normally require. Should we lodge a complaint, you reckon?"

"I think we'll have to, or get a combination padlock for the door."

"That's not a bad idea."

We take our minimalistic jacket potatoes back to Gabriela's room and sit on her bed to eat them.

"Where are you going this evening?"

"No idea; I've left it up to Paul. Suggested we meet in the Porter's Lodge at half-past six and then decide. Whilst I'm there, I'll let the porters know that someone seems to be raiding our kitchen. Let's see if they bother doing anything about it."

Gabriela nods. "Yeah. I hope they take action; otherwise we could set a trap, I suppose?"

"A trap? Now there's a thought. I'm rather tempted to get creative with some laxative chocolate and see what happens."

Gabriela bursts out into a laugh that rapidly becomes peppered with snorts. "Yes! Let's do it."

"Maybe we could target Aveline at the same time? On second thoughts, maybe not. We do have to share a corridor with her."

"When the room ballot opens for next year, we need to choose wisely. I do not want to be lumbered with Aveline and Rhiannon for another year."

"I completely agree."

"After we've finished eating, you can try on that outfit. I know it'll be perfect on you."

"It better be more comfortable than that bloody basque you made me wear on Halloween," I mutter.

"Haha! Of course it is, but it's also less cleavage-enhancing."

"Good!"

Just under six hours later, after a bland jacket potato, a difference of clothing opinion, half a scrawled essay, and a fridge security complaint, I'm standing in the Porter's Lodge with Paul deciding where to go on our date.

"Where do you fancy going?"

"Oh, I don't mind; you choose. Although," I say, looking out of the window and noting the drizzle density, "it might be a good idea if we stick to a nearby pub so we don't get too soaked."

For once, I'm grateful for the rain. It serves as an excuse to remain close to college so there's no long, awkward walk home afterwards. I reach under my coat to straighten the floaty top that Gabriela gave me to wear with my navy skinny jeans and ankle boots; a compromise we reached after an argument involving a ridiculously flouncy red dress (Gabriela's choice) and a black long-sleeved t-shirt over boyfriend jeans (mine).

"How about The Maypole? They do really good penne and meatballs there."

"Sounds lovely, except I'm vegetarian," I reply. "Sorry."

"Oh. Penne without the meatballs?" Paul grins as though he just cracked a joke. "I'm sure they do other stuff that you can eat. It's a decent pub."

"Yeah, I've been there before. Not for food, though."

"I promise you won't be disappointed."

Paul reaches for my hand and reluctantly, I let him hold it. It feels odd and wrong somehow, as though my fingers don't quite fit correctly with his. Self-consciously, I walk sedately by his side, hoping to God no-one sees me.

"It's very miserable out there," I say, noting the staccato splatters of rain against the window. "Should we take an umbrella?"

"Good idea," replies Paul, reaching out to grab one of the complimentary college umbrellas stacked in a stand by the door, just before we walk outside into the wet evening. He releases his grip on me to put the umbrella up, and immediately I tuck my hands into my coat pockets.

It's bloody cold and lashing with rain. Thanks to the decent-sized college umbrella, we're sheltered from the worst of it as we walk, but I'm not relishing having to huddle so close to Paul to benefit from its protection.

The Maypole is more of a locals pub than a student haunt, and several grizzly-chinned middle-aged men turn to stare at us as we walk through the door. Paul puts his hand behind my shoulders and steers me to the bar, which is unnecessary when I can walk there without assistance perfectly well by myself. Feeling irked, I stand and gaze mindlessly at the long row of beers on offer.

"What would you like to drink, bae?" Paul asks. "I'll have a pint of "Ale and Arty'. It's my go-to classic choice in this pub. Do you want the same?"

Bae? UGH. Only Gabriela gets to call me that and I only allow it as a piss-take.

"I'm not sure what I want yet," I reply, trying not to sound too revolted at Paul's choice of pet name. "There's a huge range of beers on offer."

"Would you like to try a sample of something?" the bartender asks. "'Bitter n Twisted' is a nice, hoppy one, or if you prefer something light and refreshing, how about 'An Ale In Time'?"

"Hmmm," I reply vaguely, glancing over the selection of draught beers to find one that I like the name of.

I can sense Paul shifting at my side, seemingly keen for me to hurry up and choose one. Turning around, I notice a small queue of restless-looking men has formed.

Let them fucking wait.

"I'll try a sample of 'Blue Beered', if that's okay?"

"Of course." The bartender nods, turns around and takes a half-pint glass from the shelf behind him. He pulls a cloth out of his apron and polishes the glass, before filling it to the one-third level with an amber-coloured brew. Not a hint of blue in sight, which is disappointing; I'd only chosen the drink for the colour it promised.

"What do you think?" asks the barman impassively.

"Mmm," I reply, shrugging my shoulders. "Yeah. It tastes like beer."

"You're not getting blueberry and honey hints?"

"Blueberry and honey? Not really. It doesn't taste sweet at all," I reply, slightly puzzled by his question.

"Obviously you haven't developed any sort of palate for beer," says Paul with a laugh, which irritates me for some reason. "I bet you usually drink lager, don't you bae?"

He shares a knowing, amused smile with the barman.

Perhaps, with my limited experience, I should have asked for lemonade. At least I could identify the primary flavours of San Pellegrino or Sprite if I had to.

"So would you like a pint or half of 'Blue Beered', then?"

"Sure."

"Pint or half-pint?" the barman repeats, somewhat slowly and impatiently, as though I'm a total imbecile.

"Oh, sorry. Half a pint, please."

We take our drinks and sit down at a table by the window, where Paul squints quickly at the menu before handing it to me.

"Have a read and see if there's anything that you like the look of. I know what I'm ordering," he says.

"What are you having?"

"Penne and meatballs. It's what I always go for. It's home-made by the landlord and very tasty."

I peruse the list of dishes. There are only a few vegetarian options, so it doesn't take me long to decide on Penne Arrabiata with grilled vegetables.

"Do we need to order at the bar?"

"Yeah," says Paul, getting up. "Would you like olives or anything else to nibble on while we wait for dinner?"

"No thanks, I'm good. Hold on," I say, reaching into my pocket for my purse. "Let me at least cover my half of the bill."

"Put that away," replies Paul. "You're not paying for anything."

"But…" I begin to protest. Too late; he's already gone to place the order.

As there's only one other person at the bar, it takes Paul less than a minute to order the food, pay for it, and sit back down.

"Thanks, Paul. That was really nice of you."

Before I realise it, he has reached across the table to caress my hand. His smile is warm and it's a caring gesture, but my skin is twitching unpleasantly at his touch.

Cringing internally, I tolerate his hand for a few seconds - he has just paid for my meal, after all. The second his grip loosens, I take the opportunity to slide my hand away and place it firmly around my glass, out of reach.

I hope I'm not going to have to hold onto my drink for the whole evening.

There's a weird, uneasy silence between us that I'm suddenly desperate to fill.

Paul must feel it too, because he gets there first. "I love this track," he enthuses, referring to the song that's currently playing in the pub. "I've just downloaded Squid's latest album - 'Tentacly Yours' - it's brilliant. Is this your kind of jam too?"

"It's okay," I reply, "but I'm not really a huge fan of modern music. I listen to a lot of old stuff from the nineties and early noughties mainly."

"Oh, me too," he agrees. "My Dad loves vintage groups like The Stone Roses and Suede, so I've grown up with that genre. What are your favourite bands?"

"Hmm," I reply, pondering. "I prefer individual songs rather than bands, I suppose, but I love most tunes by REM and Roxette. And there's a band called The Killers that I dig; my mum used to listen to their music a lot when I was little and as a consequence, so did I."

"Oh REM are legendary," he says enthusiastically. "Especially their early stuff. I often wish I'd been born a decade earlier, when music was a lot better than most of the crap they churn out these days. Squid excepted, obviously."

I laugh politely. "Yeah. I often think my parents are so lucky to have been born in the late seventies."

He nods and smiles in all the right places, he's attentive and kind, he's a great listener…but for some reason, I just seem incapable of enjoying myself this evening.

The food arrives, and it turns out that Paul is spot-on with his recommendation; it's delicious. We busy ourselves with eating, make more stop-start conversation about music and films, and Paul shares some anecdotes of his brushes with various celebrities. Two hours pass. Slowly.

"I feel really lucky to be here with you," he says, fixing me with his intense hazel gaze. A bolt of anxiety sears my spine. All this attention, whilst undoubtedly kindly-meant, is making me feel incredibly uncomfortable.

He's so nice, and aside from calling me 'bae', he has done nothing wrong.

I just don't want to be here with him.

As I'm wallowing in this musing, I become aware that Paul is saying something, but the words, spoken in his faint Midlands accent, go straight in one ear and out of the other.

I give my head a little shake, bringing myself back to the moment.

"Sorry - you were saying?"

"It doesn't matter - it wasn't important," he laughs. "I'm probably boring you senseless, aren't I?"

He is a bit, but obviously it would be awful of me to agree. It's not like I'm being the life and soul of the party either.

"Not at all."

In an effort to quench the lie, I down the remainder of my fourth half-pint. Which still tastes of beer and absolutely not in any way of blueberries.

"Would you like another drink?" Paul asks.

"No, but thanks for offering. Perhaps we could call it a night?" I suggest politely. "I have a load of lectures and a lab session tomorrow."

"Yeah, of course. Listen; I've had a really lovely evening and I hope you have too. I'd love to take you out again. Maybe next week some time?"

I bite my lip and begin to ramble. "Um, I…err, yeah, it was great, sure. Err, I've got quite a full-on timetable and I can't remember exactly when I'm free, though. Can I keep you posted?"

Immediately, I berate myself. Why can't I just tell him outright that I'm only interested in friendship? Now he'll think I'm up for another date.

Wimp.

"Sure," he replies, smiling brightly, almost too brightly. Perhaps he's correctly interpreted my indecision and is disappointed by my answer. "Text or WhatsApp me. Give me your number and I'll send you mine."

I'm unable to make up a plausible story on the spot as to why Paul can't have my number, so I dumbly recite it, watching glumly as he enters it into his phone and sends me a message. Why can't he be horrible so I wouldn't feel guilty about rejecting him?

The rain has finally stopped, in line with Gabriela's modified proverb. I suppose the clouds had to run out of water some time.

As we make our way back to college, I can't help but wonder what sort of birthday celebration Al is partaking in and whether the rest of my friends are attending.

However much or little fun they're having, I wish I was there with them instead.