On the counter there was a small rectangular package, neatly wrapped, with a card propped up alongside marked ‘Arthur’. Ellen must have sneaked back in, a fat Santa Claus, in an attempt to curry favour with her boss. A book, I rightly guessed.

I tore off the cheap paper and was, I must admit, slightly intrigued as to what subject Ellen felt was worthy of my attention; a compendium of smutty office jokes perhaps or a toilet collection of pithy sayings for ageing singletons. Or maybe she had chosen a recipe book for a twenty-something bachelor.

The comprehensive biography of the world’s most notorious serial killers took me by complete surprise. Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, Peter Sutcliffe and several other life stories filled the heavy tome. Perhaps I had seriously underestimated my co-worker. I spent the next two hours engrossed in the psychological mindsets of the fascinating celebrities.

Around midday I changed into my best clothes which I had brought with me, neatly packed in an overnight bag. I donned beige chinos, a checked blue and white shirt, and slung a thick navy jumper loosely about my shoulders. I used the small mirror in the toilet to style and restyle my hair. I applied gel to smooth it down and daubed a generous dollop of aftershave on my face. As I peered at my reflection I couldn’t help but see a resemblance to Bundy; a handsome bastard.

When I finally arrived at Ted’s, my mother ushered me in. This time she was wearing a bright pink and blue floral dress, cut above the knee. Mutton dressed as lamb.

There was no sign of Amber.

‘What time’s Amber coming?’ I asked Ted who was fiddling with the music centre. CDs were strewn across the sideboard. He didn’t look up.

‘She should be here anytime.’

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. I froze.

‘Can you get that, Arthur?’

I gulped down the champagne and instead sauntered back into the kitchen for a top-up. Let Ted answer the door.

Amber looked beautiful; clean, chic and understated. Her fluffy hair had been washed and fanned out round her elfin features. I could make out a hint of ‘Je t’aime’ perfume. It had been my Christmas present to her last year. A faint flutter of hope wafted by.

‘Hello, Amber.’

‘Hi, Arthur.’ We spoke in unison. Like minds. She stepped up and planted a light kiss, while perched on tiptoes, onto my right cheek.

‘Love the perfume,’ I whispered in her ear. She smiled, attune with my thoughts. For a brief moment the world was as it should be. A happy family all together. Things might turn out okay after all.

Mum handed Amber a glass of champagne and we all raised our glasses in a merry round of Christmas cheer.

Things started to go downhill when Amber refused a second drink.

‘I mustn’t drink too much as I have to drive home.’