‘How are you? Did you have a nice Christmas?’ the owner asked as he placed my items into a carrier bag.

‘Fine thanks. Christmas was good.’ I remember my father saying, ‘Never ask someone how they are in case they tell you.’ I certainly wasn’t going to bore Mr Patel with my problems so kept it short. On the way out I picked up a copy of the free local paper and shoved it inside the bag.

Of course it was never a conscious decision to drive to the corner shop rather than walk. It wasn’t a conscious decision either to take a detour home, to have a quick look up at Mitch’s flat. That’s what I told myself anyway. Temptation took over and I drove the long way home. I had no intention of ringing the bell, or going in. I would look up from outside, check the lights were on and then drive away and plan how to win back my lover’s heart. I still wasn’t sure what had gone wrong.

The street lamp outside the house wasn’t working and only a dim light glinted through the curtains from Mr Perkins’ apartment. The rest of the house, including Mitch’s flat, was in darkness.

In the sober light of day I wouldn’t dare ring the bell.

About half an hour passed when suddenly the front door opened. I sat upright, heart thumping, and gripped the steering wheel. It was 007, the guy from flat number three. In an instant I jumped out, driven by an instinctive urgency to gain access and yelled across the road.

‘Hello! Hello! Can you leave the door on the latch?’

I waved both arms in the air at the diminutive tenant, shouting as I watched him fiddle with his key in the lock. At first he didn’t seem to hear. I slithered across the slush but he smiled with the hint of a smirk as I drew close and he pushed the door wide as I approached.

The house was quiet. The only sound was faint music, a Beethoven piano sonata, tinkling in the distance. I tiptoed up the stairs and paused each time the wooden steps creaked. At the top I turned round by the banisters until I found myself once again outside Mitch’s flat.

There was no noise. I put my ear to the door and tapped gently. All I could hear was my own heart. I knocked again, more forcefully this time, and finally tried the handle not imagining for one minute that it would turn. The door opened inwardly without resistance.

‘Mitch? Are you there? Mitch?’ I repeated myself several times, my voice becoming louder, until I dared switch on the landing light. Beethoven had reached a climax and Mr Perkins must have opened a door somewhere because the music was more persistent.