‘Quite dreadful about Mitch. I hear Amber and he were engaged.’ Arthur sat with his ankles crossed, one foot resting over the other and he smoothed his hair down with his right hand. He reminded me of Adolf Hitler. Carefully applied gel gave the impression of a dark helmet covering his head. What I’d once considered blandness about his appearance now seemed macabre.

Arthur had swapped his respectable persona for a strange hybrid, a cross between designer chic and tatty vagrant. Fear gripped as I realised I might be confronting a psychopath. Something warned me not to be divisive.

‘Yes. The police told me.’ A wave of sadness washed over me but I stood up to camouflage my unease. ‘I heard they were to be married.’ I wandered into the kitchen and collected the small platter of dips and crisps which I’d set out earlier. I poured myself a large glass of water, having lost the taste for alcohol.

‘Anyway, I surprised Amber by announcing that you and I were also to be married.’ His voice carried through to the kitchen like an announcement on a railway station platform. The eight ten is about to depart for Peterborough from platform three.

The salted peanuts shot out all over the kitchen floor as the plate slipped from my grasp. Arthur stood in the doorway smiling. He was holding something aloft, a small box in his left hand. He didn’t say anything but watched as I extricated a dustpan and brush and swept up the debris.

‘I’ll not be a minute,’ I mumbled. ‘The nuts have rolled everywhere.’ My mind whirled with the turn of events. He didn’t lower his outstretched arm but teased me to ignore it.

‘Will you marry me, Rebecca?’ He beamed. Silence. My pulse raced and I couldn’t breathe. It was as if the air had been punched out of me as I gripped the sink.

‘Sorry, Arthur, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got an upset stomach.’

I moved towards the bathroom, closing the door tightly behind me, and quietly fastened the bolt. I gasped for air.

‘Are you okay, Rebecca?’ Arthur was directly outside the bathroom door. ‘Let me in. I can help.’

‘I’ll not be long. Sorry, I’ve had a bad stomach all day. I won’t be a moment.’

Arthur led me to the sofa, put his arm round me and apologised if he’d frightened me.

‘You must know how I feel about you. We’re meant to be together. You’ve had a dreadful shock,’ he continued as he took my hand, ‘and need someone to look after you. I think I’m that person.’ He extracted a simple ruby solitaire from its velvet confines and pushed it assertively onto the fourth finger of my left hand. It was then he played his trump card.