They both laughed. Jamie held up A History of Satanism, which featured a goat’s head and a pentagram on the cover.

‘Paul. It must be.’

He took out his phone and sent Paul a text: Thanks for the reading material. Haha!

A minute later Paul texted back. Eh??

Jamie smiled. ‘I’ll get him back.’ He flicked through the sex manual. ‘Now, actually, this has got some good tips in it.’

Heather came round at eight-thirty. She worked with Kirsty at St Thomas’s, and as they wielded their brushes – inch-by-inch turning the walls of the flat a pale, even blue – they chatted about people from work. Dr Singh was having an affair with an anaesthetist called Claire. Pat and Michael had had a blazing row about the allocation of beds in Ward F. Jamie enjoyed listening to their conversation. He had met most of the characters discussed, and listening to Kirsty and Heather gossip about their colleagues was like tuning in to a particularly interesting soap opera.

‘How’s Dracula?’ he asked Heather teasingly.

‘What? Oh God, him. He keeps hounding me, ringing me up, telling me he thinks he’s fallen in love with me.’

‘How sweet.’

‘He makes me feel sick. He really smells.’ She grimaced.

‘How’s Paul’s wild love affair with Wonderwoman coming along?’ Kirsty asked.

‘She dumped him,’ Jamie said.

‘Oh, poor Paul,’ said Heather.

‘I know. I think he really liked her. But he got an email from her saying they should call it a day. That she didn’t want to get serious.’

‘She dumped him by email? Nice.’

‘So now he’s young, free and single again,’ said Heather.

Kirsty glanced up at her. ‘Why, are you interested?’

‘No, of course not.’

Jamie and Kirsty exchanged a knowing look.

‘I’m not interested in Paul, OK?’

Jamie laughed. ‘So why are you blushing?’

‘I’m not!’

Before Heather could get any more embarrassed, the doorbell rang. Jamie looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. ‘Are we expecting anyone? Hey, maybe it’s Paul. Maybe he telepathically tuned in to your lustful thoughts about him, Heather, and came running.’

Heather flicked paint in Jamie’s direction. ‘You’re such a wanker.’

Chuckling to himself, Jamie went out to the front door.

It was a pizza courier, holding out two boxes and a litre bottle of Coke. ‘That’ll be £21.’

‘But I haven’t ordered a pizza.’

The courier checked the name and address on the order slip. ‘Jamie Knight. Ground floor flat, 143 Mount Pleasant Street.’

‘Yes, that’s me, but I haven’t ordered…’ He sighed. ‘Hold on a minute.’

He went into the flat. ‘You didn’t order a pizza, did you Kirsty?’

‘No, you know I haven’t.’

‘Oh God.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘It’s looks like we’ve has another hoax. Still, at least this one’s not as bad as the fire brigade turning up.’