(If you haven't left a review for a while, now would be a really good time, just sayin'. Or if you have never left one, or have recently started reading, please let me know where you're reading from. You might not think you have anything to say, but your readership matters enormously to me. Lastly, a massive thank you to my regular reviewers, without you, I would have given up a long time ago.

*lyrics from the Black Box album 'Dreamland' released in 1990)

The hallway wasn't that long, but in the few short seconds it took me to run the length of it, I was envisaging a catastrophe on an enormous scale. Of course, I should have known better. Granted, there was a bit of smoke, but mostly there was just Isobel, standing in the corner, clutching her imaginary pearls and squawking like a demented hen. Ever the drama queen, she'd predictably over reacted; I mean, honestly, yes the sausage rolls were burned black but only some of them had actually caught on fire. I just acted instinctively really, wrenching open the door of the cooker, grabbing the tray with the tea towel, and depositing the whole lot in the sink which was fortunately still full of soapy water from the night before. In my haste, a couple of smouldering pastries did tumble onto the floor but, with a primeval sort of instinct, I'd simply stomped on them, like a Boy Scout putting out a campfire. Problem sorted.

But then, of course, the smoke alarm had started to scream so I'd had to fetch the broom, climbing up on the worktop in a desperate attempt to push the elusive little button which was aggravatingly just out of reach. And all that time, Isobel just stood there, watching me flail around above my head as I wobbled tipsily about. How typical that she should just pirouette about at a distance, chirping out suggestions that were either completely obvious or totally ridiculous and, thoughtlessly, not even lift a finger to help at all. I missed Martin a lot in that moment; the way he would silently come to my aid, stretching his long arm upward to reset the alarm, before raising one reprimanding eyebrow at me and walking away, leaving me to exhale heavily in the sweetly restored silence.

In the end, I'd sort of lost my temper with Isobel and I'd barked at her, demanding that, for god's sake, could she please open the door to the balcony and turn on the extractor fan over the cooker? In my defence, I was trying to make myself heard over the shrieking alarm but, after that, she did just seem a little bit sulky, as if she resented me telling her what to do. Eventually, I'd silenced the smoke detector but, as I took in the carnage around us, my heart had literally sunk.

"Right, well I 'spose I'd better start cleaning this lot up. " I'd said unenthusiastically, my mouth soapy and my chin hard as I glanced at the sodden nuggets congealing in the sink. "Do you wanna go and grab the glasses and things from the bedroom for me please, Isobel?"

I was steeling myself as best I could for the task but I was already really regretting the wine. It had certainly been useful for peacekeeping purposes but my stomach was spasming alarmingly as a result. I was so intent on breathing deeply, that I almost missed the sound of Isobel giggling nervously and it was only as I glanced across at her that I realised, somewhat indignantly, that she was in the process of putting on her Mac.

"Where are you going?" I asked, unable to hide my disbelief. I mean, even for her this was a new low, buggering off when it was my turn to actually need her help.

"Sorry LouLou, I'd like to stay, I really would but I…I was sort of pinning my hopes on Martin getting me a job." She replied, staggering slightly as she tried to navigate around the dining table. "Obviously, it's a lot to ask…to help a friend in need…so pay no mind mind to me, but things are going to get a bit tricky with Doris if I don't find something soon…if I can't pay my board who knows where I'll end up?"

And then she had just stood there, blinking back at me with an expression that suggested I'd totally let her down but that she was bravely resigned to life, and me, treating her like that. As her words sunk in, incredulity had hit me like a cold shower on a winter's morning. Worse than that, her implication really stung and I felt indignant in a way I struggled to vocalise. My jaw had slid sideways and disbelief had locked it ferociously into place. I could even hear my own breathing, sharp and furious, in my ear, and I'd had to turn my back on her because I was so scared of what I might say.

"Oh right. I see. So you're off then…" I'd muttered eventually, gripping the edge of the worktop and drumming my fingers loudly on its edge. "Well, that's just fine..that's…just…you know, whatever…"

"It's been great though!" She'd added, cheerfully. "And thanks for the typing and everything. That was really fab of you, honestly. I mean…really…super."

Ignoring her, I'd bent down to retrieve the rubber gloves from under the sink because, obviously, I didn't fancy putting my bare hands in a cold stew of burnt pastry flakes, half submerged lumps of sausage, and last night's grey and greasy dishwater. But, as I crouched unsteadily on my haunches, honestly, I was hiding, and just willing her to leave. I had run out of the energy required to talk to her, and the truth was, I'd forced myself to ignore how irritating she could be, just as I'd forgotten how she lived in a world where the grass was always greener, and where everyone else was so much luckier than poor, put-upon Isobel. I was finally finished, I'd completely had enough. So I wasn't going to stand up, smile and tell her I'd see her soon. I wasn't going to check that she had her floppy disc, and her tragic envelope of unenthusiastic references. I wasn't even going to offer to walk her down to the street, and to pleasantly wave her off as I watched her walk away. Not for the first time in my life actually, I felt used and taken for granted, and was going to need a few minutes of quiet time to grapple with that fact.

"I'll see myself out then..." I'd heard her call out cheerily, closing my eyes as I listened to her prolonged fumbling with the lock, followed fortunately by a deeply satisfying click as she managed, at least, to close the door behind her.

Wobbling about on the floor, the cool white finish of Martin's usually immaculate kitchen pressed against my forehead, everything was dismal and disappointing again. My head was full of things I was trying desperately not to think about, and my stomach was an aching lump. It seemed impossible to understand what anyone ever wanted from me; one minute people say you matter to them and, just when you start to believe them, they simply up and disappear. Honestly though, should I ever have expected anything from Isobel, or was I simply clutching desperately at straws? Though a few years had passed, amongst other things, I had not really forgiven her for moving away to Bristol without bothering to tell me, or troubling herself to even say goodbye. Though we were no longer as close then as we had been at school, when I'd heard she'd gone it had still felt like yet another thoughtless abandonment, as if everything we'd shared together had meant nothing to her at all.

For a while, her leaving like that had just felt like more evidence really, adding to my conviction that people I cared about usually viewed me as expendable. How else can you explain fifteen years of loyal friendship appearing meaningless to her? We'd sat together on the first day of school, and walked home together almost every day after that. We'd roamed the village endlessly in those long days of summer, making daisy chains, and singing songs and collecting shells. Thinking back to how we'd stuck together, graduating to playing records and discussing boys for hours; it had been inexplicable that she would simply up and leave.

The recollection of it all is just a bit too uncomfortable and I sigh and clamber to my feet, not quite ready to face the clean up but not really knowing what to do with myself. Half-heartedly, I open another bottle of wine and splash some into a glass but I can't pretend that Isobel didn't just waltz back into my life because she thought I might be useful in her job search, and that actually hurts me more than I care to admit. Clutching my drink, and what's left of the crisps, I wander gloomily back into the living room, feeling disappointed and, quite honestly, rejected. Is this what comes of doing the right thing, I wonder, is this the result of trying to be helpful and kind to someone you know is in need? As I pass the front door, I shake my head in disbelief. There, scattered across the hall floor, are the coat, and the bra, and the stockings I'd felt so benevolent in gifting to her earlier, lying crumpled, abandoned and forgotten, as if she really didn't care two hoots that I was trying to help.

So much for gratitude, I think to myself as I put my glass down on the coaster and kick off my shoes. The flat is too quiet now, and I don't want to be alone with my thoughts, the walls are as reflective as mirrors and I really don't like what I see. I slide a CD into the player and, dejectedly, throw myself down on the sofa as my stomach growls loudly. I am a bit squiffy, if I'm honest, so I stuff a handful of crisps in my mouth and think about having a little lie down. But Isobel's visit has ignited a strange sort of edginess in me, an oversensitivity that I am trying desperately to ignore. But the words in my head are sixty foot tall and flashing in neon; what is it about me that seems to drive everyone away?

Just as I close my eyes, I hear a knock on the door, and I shake my head knowingly. I could have, I should have predicted this really. Isobel might have been even frothier and more scatterbrained than I ever remembered, but even she has finally realised that she left something valuable behind. So typical of her, I think as I stagger to my feet and fix a slightly disapproving look to my face; so ditzy and giddy and skittish, yet street-smart enough to realise that, once she was outside, that feeling the cold was wholly unnecessary when she'd been actually been gifted a really lovely warm coat.

"I thought you'd be back," I say loudly, reaching for the lock and throwing the door open as I bend down to scoop up the clothes. "…honestly…sometimes Isobel…I don't know…"

I heard her giggle again, but in that split second I was intensely aware that something didn't feel quite right. The room seemed to spin a little as I stood up; I was slightly dizzy, a little bit shaky and, worst of all, exasperated and cross. But, as I focused again, and looked at the spot where I'd imagined Isobel to be standing, where I'd pictured her, simpering and googly-eyed, and eager to snatch the clothes from my arms, I'd felt myself involuntarily recoil. Aside from the intensity of my physical reaction, every subsequent second was somehow distorted, like I was standing underneath a strobe light, watching the stage, as the star performer emerged from a fog of dry ice.

Instinctively, I push back on the door but his foot goes to the gap, my unsteady reflexes no match for the shoulder he puts in the way. The strength of his wrist upon the handle wrenches it from my trembling hand. His face is inches from mine. Cold air rushes into the room and I hear a strangled gasp and realise it's me. In the background the bass thumps relentlessly. You just walk right in. You just walk right in, walk, walk, walk right in. Despite that affable smile, despite that awkward boyish stance, as I gape at him, my body seems to turn to jelly, and the armful of clothes fall helplessly to the floor beneath my feet.

"How did you get up here?" I demand, my vice shrill and tremulous, back-pedalling helplessly as he launches himself excitedly into the flat.

"Your friend was very obliging…" he says, flashing me a triumphant grin. "And it seems my timing was impeccable…"

I let out a loud growl of frustration. Thoughtless bloody Isobel! How could she have been so stupid, so careless as to let in a stranger in through what is clearly a security door? The sound of my irritation seems to amuse him, and he barks with laughter as his eyes dart around the room, taking it all in, as he almost jogs excitedly on the spot. His hair is longer than I remember, his face paler and thinner. Despite the coolness of the day, he wears only a white shirt and tightly-knotted rather uneven tie, a somber, long black and white striped number that's tucked firmly and into the front of his trousers. I can see it now. He is far from well-dressed but she would have thought him quite good looking, and would have flirted with him in her usual clumsy fashion. Oh god, I think to myself as I look at him, oh god Isobel, just what have you done?

"Andrew…what are you doing here?"

"I brought your records back…" he replies enthusiastically, sniffing sharply and grinning at me as he proffers the plastic bag he clutches in his hand.

It seems both of us are now trembling. I notice his brutally chewed nails, and how the hair on the back of his unsteady hand lies like coarse rose gold threads against his pale freckled skin. I glance into the bag and look at him askance.

"Umm…they're so not my records…" I tell him, slightly scornfully. " And, umm, can I just ask, how did you find out where I lived?"

He giggles again, a nervous, chaotic sound, and he grimaces at me. "The last flat, old girl. You left a forwarding address, didn't you? I didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to track you down…"

"Oh, right." I say, and I pause, picturing Holly falling over herself to provide him with my details, knowing all along that no possible good could come of it. "You know this is actually just a really bad time, Andrew. I'm sorry but I do have to go out shortly…I mean it was a kind thought but, you know, it's probably just best if you leave now, cos I have to get ready."

I smile at him, and give an encouraging nod of my head. It's a little cue I use with Martin all the time, in fact he often seems quite grateful and relieved to be guided, but trying it on a disconcertingly manic Andrew has no effect at all.

"Actually, Louisa, the thing is, I actually wanted to apologise, and I suppose I would very much like to explain…" he says, and he grins again as he stares down at me, a smile I'd once thought charming in a face I'd once considered handsome.

He takes a step forward, and now he looms over me in a way that's almost intimidating. But, really, honestly, how could he be threatening? I mean, this is Andrew; silly, playful, light hearted Andrew. Crumpled, unreliable and utterly chaotic but never violent or frightening or cruel. Yet his eyes seem different somehow, as they bore into me; colder perhaps, vacant somehow, and I bite my lip as my heart begins to pound uncontrollably. I can see tiny patches of stubble, around his mouth and chin, bits that he has missed shaving, and what looks like a tiny remnant of shaving cream around the curl of one nostril. I feel myself shudder as I wonder what has happened to him since last we spoke, what has caused him to apparently really let himself go.

"Oh…well…there really is no need to apologise." I say briskly, with a hopeful grimace. "I mean, it was a while ago now, wasn't it? Ancient history really. I'm honestly not even bothered…"

"You see that feels almost insulting actually." He interrupts, scowling at me as the smile drains from his face. Without his usual, faintly bemused expression, he seems more disturbing, less predictable, and I feel what I realise is a cold flash of fear. "I mean, we were friends, weren't we, good friends? God, Louisa, I even thought you really cared about me once..."

My heart thumps and I clench my fists so that he cannot see how much my hands are shaking. "Well yeah…but that has to be just water under the bridge now, doesn't it? I mean, I'm sure we've both moved on, you know, since then…"

I'm startled as he suddenly throws his hands up in the air, clasping them around the back of his neck, and letting out a long, agitated moan as he turns and walks a few steps away. "Well, that's the thing, actually, Louisa, because I don't seem able to…move on as you so nicely put it."

"Andrew…"

"Look, I know I didn't behave well…I was a bit of a coward I suppose, but that's why I need to explain…" He says and he rushes back toward me. "You owe me that at least. You might have the hot shot boyfriend now, but what's going to happen when the money dries up, eh?"

I shake my head silently, too scared to take my eyes off him now.

"I'll tell you what happens. They act like they own you, Louisa, until one day they just discard you because something better comes along…" he adds quietly, and to my horror, he reaches up to touch my face. "It's different with us. I think about you all the time…you were never just a trophy girlfriend to me…"

I jerk my head out of the way, and glare at him, hoping my growing anxiety isn't obvious. Martin always corrects me if I describe myself as "in shock" but, as my legs seem unable to hold me up, I can't think of a better way to describe it.

He frowns. "Don't be like that. I was just thinking how are even prettier than I remembered, if that's possible…"

My voices catches in my throat: "Umm…thanks…but, you see, the thing is…I'm with someone else now…and it's serious…"

"And doesn't he keep some strange hours?" He interrupts impatiently. "You must be spending a lot of time alone here, in this big empty flat. But, that's what happens, Louisa, that's what I was trying to explain. One minute they have to know everything you're doing, everyone you're with, and the next minute, you're discarded. In the gutter, without a cent to your name..."

"I don't really think what I do with my life is any of your business actually…but the point is, I'm seeing someone else and that's all there is to it…" I reply, my voice more tart and reprimanding than perhaps I intended, but how dare someone as fickle and unreliable as Andrew dare to criticise Martin's dependability, his commitment to me. "Now, if you don't mind. I have to go out…"

"Aren't you listening?" He demands sharply, raising his voice at me in a way that is now quite alarming. "Aren't you listening to what I said Louisa? Because I'm pretty sure I just told you that I can't get over you…us really…and I know I made a hash of things before but it's different now. We had fun didn't we? And if you were listening, if you cared for me as much as I thought you did, then you'd understand that I had some…impediments…then, that I don't have now..."

"Andrew…" I say despairingly.

"This time it will be different. I promise you that. I give you my word..."

My heart is pounding, and though a voice in my head tells me to humour him, instead I firmly shake my head, folding my arms across my chest defiantly. I mean, who the hell does he think he is, barging his way into my home, and asking me to get back together with him as if nothing ever happened? Can he really be so obtuse that he can't imagine how humiliated I was, how hurt, and how ashamed? Angrily, I slap my hands onto my hips and this time I take a step forward; the nerve of him, the absolute nerve.

"Andrew, listen to me and listen carefully. We had a bit of fun for a few weeks but, honestly, you never seemed that committed, and then, hah! you just disappeared, so, really…"

"She was on to me, don't you see?" He interrupts, his face contorted in what seems like agony, his palms flying up to his temples, as if he is in total and utter despair. "God, you have no idea. She threatened….she…she…I mean, I just had to go away but I always meant to come back. I just had to sort things out…"

As he garbles his explanation, I wince as if I've been winded, as everything from that horribly confusing and upsetting time in my life seems suddenly to finally make sense. God I was such an idiot, everything Libby prophesied about his situation was unerringly accurate; he was a toy boy, a kept man, and I was just a foolish distraction, a naive impressionable little bit on the side. But funny, isn't it, how humiliation makes you angry, and how anger gives you courage? I twist my jaw as an avalanche of indignation begins to overcome me.

"I don't care actually! You need to understand that I have no feelings for you now whatsoever and you are wasting your time." I hear myself bark at him, too cross and too insulted now to care what he might do next. "And I'm sorry if that disappoints you but, honestly, Andrew, what the hell did you expect? Have you conveniently forgotten how it ended?"

For an instant I am back in that miserable flat, screwing up my eyes so I don't have to look up at the water stained ceiling, or the ridiculous expression of a man I was shortly to discover I meant absolutely nothing to. How could anyone be so clueless, so selfish, and so utterly insensitive to assume they'd get a second chance when the first time was so absolutely, bloody awful? Why would I tolerate his cigarette breath and cold, bony fingers, when I knew something infinitely better was out there? Why on earth would I choose fickleness and a constant state of insecurity, now I know that trust, and constancy, and stability actually exist?

Andrew stares at me now, silent, his face contorted. The stereo thunders in the background, a strange uptempo soundtrack to a nerve wracking and unpredictable encounter.

You took me easy and then let me go, I never was you see, that cheatin' kind…

I wonder what it will take to get rid of him but I daren't move a muscle, all I can do is return his stare with a defiant one of my own. We are like strangers now, I do not recognise anything of the boy I'd pretended was my boyfriend. And now all I feel is discomfort as I notice his eyes glaze over with what appear to be tears. Oh god, Andrew, no, I think, please don't lose what little there is left of your dignity. But, as disarming as it is to see a grown man start to cry, I sense that I have regained the upper hand, and I'm not about to let that go. I lift my chin and glare at him coldly.

"Anyway, Andrew, I think it's probably best if you go on your way now, before we say things we'll regret, yeah? Take your records, take your relationship advice and perhaps just take yourself off to work, hmm?…"

I wait for an acknowledgement, a concession I suppose, that he has taken it in. I watch intently for a lowering of his eyes, a turning away resignedly, a gathering up of his ludicrous, sad, old LPs, and his departure from my life forever. I don't want to even think about how he knows the hours that Martin works, or how often I'm alone in the flat. It's all just a bit much for me now. But, as his composure crumbles, like any teacher worth her salt, I look for a sign of contrition, an indication that he's thought better of the way he has behaved and, especially, that he is no longer under any illusion that he means anything to me at all. But, instead of remorse, all I see is a trickle of blood running from his nostril. It oozes down his lip as he stares at me despondently, dripping off his face as tiny droplets that splatter his collar and trickle down his tie. I hold my breath as I wait for him to notice, willing him to search for his handkerchief or to put his hand to his face but, instead, he seems disturbingly insensible and completely still.

As I gaze at him in horror, the bleeding intensifies and, before long, I have to point it out to him, shrilly, my tone reprimanding and slightly disgusted. My stomach turns at his response, running his tongue half heartedly along his top lip, as if he's resigned to, even used to spontaneous blood noses. But, when I pull a face and gesture for him to look at his clothing, he suddenly seems to panic, as if it's literally the end of the world.

"Oh my god, I've got to go to work. I can't arrive covered in blood!" He squeaks, breathlessly. "Oh god…if only you'd just listened to me, Louisa, you know none of this would have happened don't you?…but you don't listen, do you? I mean, for godsake, it's my new job! What am I going to do? Oh F*ck Louisa! F*ck! Help me!"

For a split second, it is as if I am observing myself, fascinated by the way my mind is just an absolute blank and, though later I will blame the fear, and the shock, and the wine, just when I need my wits about me, aggravatingly, I just can't think what to do. Airway, breathing, circulation. I run to the kitchen and grab the tea towel, encouraging him to press it to his face as I guide him carefully to the sofa and demand that he sit down. The last thing I need now is to get blood on the carpet on top of everything else. But should he lean forward, or should he lean back? I can't seem to remember the most basic of First Aid, and I think desperately to myself that, if Martin was here, he'd know exactly what to do. He deals with this sort of thing day in and day out, never breaking a sweat, never losing his cool.

"My shirt…" Andrew moans, his voice muffled and nasal through the thick wad of fabric. "I can't afford to be sacked, Louisa. I've only just found a flat. This always happens when I'm upset. Why did you have to upset me?"

"Stay there." I tell him, fighting the indignation I feel that this is somehow all my fault. "I'll be right back."

I run to the bathroom and retrieve a large box of tissues, hesitating in the door way before darting into the study, and picking up the phone. My heart beats madly as I dial, even more furiously as I wait for someone to answer. I can't think straight, I can't even recall where he might be today but the only number I can recall is Imperial and I offer up a silent prayer for him to please pick up and answer. Martin will help me, Martin will know what to do. But to my despair, I hear the click of the answerphone, and I bow my head in frustration, even if his serious tone does seems somehow somehow reassuring. I take a deep shuddering breath and whisper into the mouthpiece.

"Please, Martin, it's me, Louisa. Sorry but, umm, if there's any chance you could come home for a bit, could you? Please? Someone's turned up..umm…and I can't get rid of them. And I'm a bit worried, they're acting a bit weird and a bit unpredictable. Please Martin, can you come home as soon as you get this message?"

I notice how much my hand is shaking as I attempt to gently replace the receiver. My breath is coming in little shallow gasps, and I seem to have completely lost all presence of mind. I can barely feel my legs as I walk quickly back to the living room, discovering Andrew slumped over on the sofa, and dropping the tissues unceremoniously beside him on the plump dark brown leather. He startles and makes the most dreadful gagging noise before loudly clearing his throat several times. God, the sound is absolutely revolting and I contemplate how on earth I can get him to leave. The best idea perhaps is to get him cleaned up and on his way to work. Perhaps if I encourage him, remind him how he can't be late, that might feed into his fear of losing his job. But then there's the issue of the blood stained clothing. As much as it would pain me, I could probably find him a tie, but Andrew would swim in any other article of Martin's clothing, being four inches shorter and, these days, only half his width.

"Can you sit up and take your tie off, and let me have a look at your shirt?" I ask him firmly, my brisk tone camouflaging the desperation I feel as he sounds now as if he's actually sobbing.

When he doesn't move, I raise my voice, and talk to him as I might to a seven year old boy. "Andrew, let's just get you cleaned up, shall we? And get you off to work, Hmm? Come on. Sit up for me."

Whimpering unintelligibly, he slowly straightens his neck and becomes upright, holding the cloth in his left hand as he fumbles with his tie. Gingerly, I take the hideous thing from him and carry it carefully to the utility room. The state of the kitchen fills me with despair but, at the moment, it's the least of my problems. I reach for the soap flakes, sprinkling them liberally into the bucket as I half fill it with cold water. As I swill it around with my hand, and wait for it to dissolve, I wonder why my mind won't seem to let me remember much of what it was like when Andrew and I were together. It's as if my brain is telling me that there's nothing to see here, denying me access because it's best if it's forgotten. But I do recall enough to know that I was never aware of him looking at me, when he thought I wouldn't notice; wide-eyed and almost in disbelief, and blushing horribly when I caught his eye and smiled.

And there were definitely never any moments when he took me in his arms, and I felt like I was the only thing that mattered in the world to him. It was never like there was just the two of us, together, sharing an deep and almost indescribable sort of bond. In his defence, Andrew probably was often fun, and I suppose we laughed a bit but it's strange how none of that seems to matter any more. It's like everything else I felt at the time overwhelms my mind so completely; shame and sadness and disbelief. And, as I leave the cheap and nasty polyester tie to soak, recalling what I do of him makes me feel horrible, it makes me embarrassed, and actually even physically sick. Taking a big deep breath, I pick my way through the debris that have desecrated Martin's spotless kitchen. Everything is just a disaster. Perhaps if I iron the stupid tie it might dry quickly, I can get rid of him, and try and clean up a bit before Martin comes home.

But that still leaves Andrew and his bloody shirt on the Chesterfield sofa and I'm honestly not sure what the hell I'm going to do about that. When I get to the living room, he's abandoned the tea towel but, more horrifyingly, he has discarded his shirt, and he stands, naked from the waist up, in the middle of the rug, clasping a handful of tissues to his face and breathing noisily.

"What are you doing?" I demand of him, incredulously.

"The collar. It's covered in blood." He replies plaintively. "I'm so sorry this has happened, I really am. But please Louisa, could you just do what you can and I'll get out of your hair? Its only my second day. I can't turn up covered in blood…"

For a moment, everything is surreal. I shake my head, and I tut then, like a disapproving librarian, glowering at him impatiently. Circling the room as he is, I make a bizarre mental connection to an anxious Mick Jagger, strutting around like he is barefoot on hot coals. Honestly, Andrew is worse than a toddler with his disconcerting mood swings and now he's actually starting to really brass me off. Angrily, I tell him to sit down and threaten him with bodily harm if he should drip blood on any of Martin's things.

"I'll see what I can do but I can't promise anything." I add briskly. "And, I mean, I can't get it dry for you as well. Are you sure you can't just go home and change, cos that would be the easiest solution, obviously."

"The thing is…ummm…I don't actually have another clean shirt…" he replies sheepishly, and I shake my head at him in disbelief.

In that moment, he is suddenly pathetic. A lost and hopeless case who will never get his act together; he is more like a wounded animal than any sort of competent human. I do always try and look for the best in people but I wonder how I ever found his bumbling ineptitude charming, or his bony features in any way good looking. Why didn't I notice that his ears were weirdly small and childlike, and his eyes just a little bit too close together? And did he always sniff like this? It's the most aggravating sound I've ever heard. Doesn't he own a handkerchief? Didn't anyone ever teach him any manners? How has he got to his mid twenties only to be still so clueless on how a reasonable adult behaves?

"Give it here then." I say, and I snatch it from him gracelessly.

Glancing down, I notice without much surprise that the inside of his collar is quite discoloured but I remind myself that it's only the outside that I need to worry about. Without a word, I turn on my heel and escape back to the utility room, resigned that I must help him, but determined never to to have anything to do with him again. As I bend over the sink, an idea strikes me. Does dry cleaning fluid work on blood? I go the cupboard and fiddle with the childproof latch, cursing as I chip the nail of my index finger in the process. And then I hear the stereo, the volume exploding into life, the sounds stuttering and discordant, and I assume that it's Andrew, forwarding though the tracks of my Black Box CD. I can feel the bass resonant in my chest and I really ought to go and remonstrate with him, but I just want his shirt cleaned up and him gone from the flat. Peering at the bottle and finding no instructions, I reluctantly decide to stick to cold water instead and, with only a second's hesitation, I plunge his shirt into the bucket and begin to scrub at the front.

To my relief, the blood starts to launder from the thin, white fabric immediately and, straight away, my mood improves. God I'm exhausted. It's been such a horrible week, full of conflict and disappointment and sadness and, now, actual fear. My irresponsible father, a calculating old friend, and a completely Bodmin ex boyfriend turning up out of the blue haven't exactly made for a great state of mind, especially when I keep fighting with Martin when I don't mean to, and everything I do seems to turn into a disaster. Watching the soap bubbles pop and explode, it actually strikes me as really unfair, especially when my intentions are honestly good. Once I've got the house cleaned up, I will have a quick shower and then, hopefully, he will come home for long enough that I can explain everything. I really want his advice, too, about my dad, and I suppose I really need some reassurance if I'm honest. If only we could have a few hours together, uninterrupted, everything would be alright. An early night of course but afterwards, in the peacefulness that always follows, we might be able to talk through everything; it's always in the dark Martin seems to finds his voice.

I squeeze out the shirt; it's not perfect but it will do. Andrew will probably catch hypothermia if he goes outside in wet clothing but, frankly, I just don't care. Honestly, what did I ever see in him at all, it's as if he is helpless! He and Isobel are similar that way, always determined to be the victim and god, it's so frustrating. But, for now, he does seems to be pulling himself together a little. The volume on the stereo suddenly drops and the only sound now is the stream of water from the tap as it thunders into the bottom of the stainless steel sink. Grateful that the sodding shirt is one hundred percent polyester, I rinse and wring it out once more but, just as I'm shaking the creases out, I'm sure I hear raised voices. I pause, holding my breath as the ground beneath me seems to dissolve away. A door slams, the crisp, perfectly enunciated growl is unmistakeable and, as I listen, despair freezes the blood in my veins to glacial ice.