Steady, he’d cautioned himself. Don’t blow it now. He knew he needed to try and control his impulses but today was a significant day and after prowling around his tiny bedsit like a caged animal, he knew he wouldn’t be able to control himself. The computer screen glared at him from the corner of the room, inflaming him even further with its lack of updates. Why couldn’t she just post something? Anything?

His frustration with Claire rose like bile and he knew he had to do something. He would take a drive. Perhaps stop off for a pint. But as soon as he got into his car, he found himself heading in the direction of his hometown. He needed to see her. Which is why he found himself hidden in some bushes just metres from Claire’s house, in a crouched position. It wasn’t comfortable, but it gave him a decent vantage point of her home, the smart navy-blue front door with its gold knocker and sweeping driveway.

It was almost dark, whatever daylight there had been slowly ebbing away. A train of lampposts had come on, one of which had a fault, the constant flickering provoking Paul’s peripheral vision. He scrabbled in his pocket and found an old piece of chewing gum, unwrapped it, and put it in his mouth wishing he’d brought more supplies.

Just minutes ago, he’d watched as Chris had left the house, his shoulders hunched against the cold, his face raging. Paul felt a moment’s irritation. What did he have to be angry about? He had it all, if only the dumb fuck would realise it. Paul looked at their house – three floors of success right there.

Some of the windows were lit and he wondered which one was Claire’s bedroom. He didn’t let his imagination stretch to Chris. In his mind, it was just Claire and Paul – her long blonde hair splayed on the pillow, a novel in her hands. It would be literary fiction of course, and every so often she would look up at him and ask him a question. What did he think the writer meant by this? And then she would read the paragraph out to him, her voice low and honeyed, just like she used to all those years ago when she came to his house and lay on his bed, their textbooks spread out around them.

Claire had been fascinated with his mind: his ability to recall information, his quick understanding of subjects. He remembered one afternoon when she’d asked him about the encyclopaedias that lined his bookshelf.