The old gang—the guys he trained with at Imperial College and played rugby with. I try to picture them all squeezed into this room, laughing and telling embarrassing medical anecdotes, or worse still, reliving their laddish exploits. I could do without all that, to be honest, but it’s about time I met the people he works with. About time they met me. It won’t do any harm for all those nurses and receptionists and secretaries to meet Dr. Murray’s fiancée. Do they even know we’re engaged? Because if not, it’s about time they did.

“All right,” I say, before I can change my mind. “Let’s do it!”

Later, though, as we’re climbing into bed, I’m already starting to regret the idea.

“When exactly were you thinking of having it?”

“I dunno. Next Saturday?”

I think of all the boxes still cluttering up the living room, and one in particular. The one that’s been exerting its siren call on me ever since it arrived in the house.

“But that only gives us a week, and we haven’t unpacked half our stuff yet.”

Ross laughs. “Lizzie, it’s a housewarming party. People will expect a few boxes.”

Visions of drunken strangers helping us unpack flit through my mind: cardboard and newspaper scattered all over the floor, our possessions being plonked in strange and hilarious places. Sometimes I wish I was less uptight about these things. A fun-loving party girl. Someone who could down tequila slammers and Jägerbombs.

“Tell you what,” he says, leaning over to switch his lamp off, “we’ll have it in a few weeks. What about the first Saturday in April? That’ll give us time to go to Ikea and buy some more glasses. I can let people know tomorrow.”

I go to switch my lamp off, too, but before I can reach it Ross straddles me and his hands are in my hair.

I giggle and raise my arms above my head, let him slip my top off and fling it on the floor. “Now then, Miss Molyneux,” he says, in his best impersonation of Sean Connery’s James Bond talking to Miss Moneypenny, “please lie very still while I carry out a totally unnecessary breast examination. It’s an innovative technique, part of the new NICE guidelines,” he adds, deadly serious. “I shall be using only my mouth.”

—

I lie on my back, sweat cooling on my skin, till the nightmare fades. The one where a train is bearing down on me and I can’t move my feet. Can’t run away in time. I’ve had it before, lots of times, but not for ages. I always wake a split second before the impact, the deafening whine of the engine still roaring in my ears. I must have fallen into a deep sleep as soon as Ross left for work this morning. That’ll teach me to close my eyes again.