The bedroom was tiny, dominated by a double bed covered by an orange candlewick bedspread. There was a window with purple curtains pulled closed. It was hot as hell in here, stifling.

‘Bathroom’s at the end of the hall, my missus has the plug. You want a bath in the morning, ask her for it.’

Shauna stared at the man. Fuck’s sake! She’d heard of tight, but that was water tight, like a duck’s arse.

‘Breakfast is sharp at eight downstairs. And it’s twenty quid, all in. Money up front.’

It wasn’t exactly cheap, but at least it was a bed. Josh got out a twenty and it vanished into the man’s dressing-gown pocket faster than you could say knife.

‘Sleep well then,’ he said, and went out the door, closing it behind him.

Josh put his bag on the bed and Shauna followed suit. There was nowhere else to put their things, except on the floor. No lamps by the bed, there wasn’t even room for a chair. She went straight to the window and flung it open, but there was no cooling breeze; the night air was humid as a damp flannel.

‘Well, here we are,’ said Josh.

‘Yeah,’ said Shauna, and suddenly she was nervous.

She’d wanted this for a long time – but now it was actually happening, she felt awkward. If she had ever daydreamed about her and Josh – and she had – the scene would go like this: Josh would fall on his knees and propose to her, say he didn’t know what the hell he’d ever seen in Claire Milo, that he’d kicked the dozy bitch aside. That he wanted Shauna, he always had. And then there would be wedding bells, blissful marriage, the works.

But . . . this wasn’t that. Josh was still in love with Claire. Shauna was here because she had insisted on keeping him company. She felt a stab of despair at the situation. But she was tough; she’d make the best of it. Now that drippy tart Claire was off the scene, he would come to see that Shauna was the right woman for him. He had to.

‘Better get some shut-eye then,’ said Josh, and took both bags off the bed and tossed them on to the floor. He threw back the covers.

Shauna looked dubiously at the purple nylon sheet. She sniffed, guessing that it hadn’t been washed after the last occupants of the bed had departed.

‘Jesus,’ she grimaced.

‘It’s a bed,’ he shrugged.

‘I’m not taking my clothes off to lie in that,’ she said.

‘Keep ’em on then,’ he said, his tone weary, and he kicked off his shoes and lay down.