The fridge was the same one my sister and I used to make a beeline for when we came home from school and college. My parents had never changed it and I could still see traces of cartoon stickers we’d stuck across it over the years. Ridiculously it made me resent this man’s hand on it, even more, and his apparent familiarity with what was inside. Who was this Stuart Chambers and why was he treating my parents’ kitchen as if it were his own?

Begrudgingly I accepted his offer of tea and sat redundantly at the table while he made it, answering his questions about Florida without enthusiasm. I was aware I was being rude, but as time passed, I became more and more uneasy as I wondered where exactly my parents were. When I asked, all I managed to extract was what my mother had put in the text – that they’d be back soon.

Then I heard the front door and seconds later the two of them walked into the kitchen laden down with grocery bags. Relieved, I stood up to take one from each of them, giving them both hugs.

My mother lifted her remaining bag onto the counter by the sink with a groan. “So, you’ve met Stuart then?”

“I have.”

It seemed rude to ask who the hell he was while he was sitting there. So, I helped my mother unpack the groceries and put them away while Stuart made another pot of tea, which the four of us sat down to drink with a ginger cake my mother produced from a tin in the cupboard. It was like some weird double date.

“Would you like me to take your bags up to your room?” Stuart asked while pouring the tea.

This was the final straw. There was something about the ease with which he offered to go upstairs that made me realize he knew his way around up there too. Was he staying here?

So I asked the question directly.

“Yes,” my mother replied, taking a piece of cake. “Stuart’s been helping us around the house. He needed somewhere to stay, and we needed someone to help with certain things. So, it seemed to make sense.” She smiled over at him.

“What kind of things?” I asked, trying and failing to keep my tone light.

“Oh, just some house maintenance, that sort of thing. Nothing you could have done,” my father added hurriedly as if to assuage my guilt, making me feel even worse. “Guttering, some electrical stuff, things I can’t do since I had my fall.”

“Right,” I said, still baffled as to how a handyman doing odd jobs had managed to get his feet under the table. Literally. His shoe brushed off mine and he looked up at me with a rather creepy smile.

“And how did you meet?” I asked, taking a sip of tea.