‘I’m okay. I’ll sleep it off. Let yourself out.’ I went back to the bathroom, pulled the bolt across and waited. I cupped my ear to the door.

Oliver didn’t linger. I heard the jangle of keys and knew he was leaving. ‘Thanks for a great evening,’ he called back. ‘Hope you feel better soon.’

He didn’t wait for an answer. He opened the front door and closed it gently behind him. Only then did my legs give way and I collapsed onto the icy bathroom tiles.

23

Arthur

Loss of control was possibly the worst thing about my abandonment. A desperate desire for Amber clung to me, clothed me in a cloak of self-loathing. My voyeuristic vigil continued all the way through until the New Year and with determined intent, I watched and waited.

Amber followed a very boring routine. I willed her lack of scintillating activity to douse the flames of passion but such was the inexplicable nature of my obsession that her normality made me want her more. She was no harlot.

At first I was thrilled that no late-night snapshots had captured the mystery caller on her doorstep but then I became increasingly angry when she didn’t ring me, now that she was free and single again. I felt doubly rebuffed because she didn’t want my shoulder to cry on.

It was an impulse decision, brought about by desperation and also by not a modicum of boredom, that made me pick up the phone on New Year’s Eve. It must have been about seven and I knew Amber was at home alone. She hadn’t yet drawn the curtains.

I watched her wander around aimlessly for over an hour as she poured herself a couple of glasses of wine, disappearing every so often into the bedroom and bathroom. My stomach lurched when I finally picked up the courage and dialled her number. I could see her as she spoke.

‘Hi, Amber here.’ She sounded upbeat. Perhaps she had plans for the evening but I was confident she had opted for a quiet night in. Neither of us was into wild parties.

‘Hi. It’s me,’ I said. I wanted to see if she instantly knew who was on the other end of the line. It was a test.

‘Arthur. Aren’t you out? It’s New Year’s Eve. How are you?’

She was fiddling with a picture on the wall, making sure it was level. The Eiffel Tower in black and white. We’d bought it on a romantic mini-break together. It was only a cheap print but large enough to cover torn wallpaper and fingered stains.

‘I’m well, thanks. It’s a bit of a long shot,’ I said, hesitant, ‘but I’m at a loose end and thought my best friend might be around for a drink. If you’re busy, don’t worry.’