My mother took over the conversation. ‘When are you coming back from Cambridge?’

I sat in silence.

Arthur winked at me. He was trying to win my trust.

How easily we are fooled by a smile, a kind word or a carefully timed action. Arthur checked departures on his phone and told us the fifteen thirty to Cambridge was leaving from platform four in fifteen minutes. I was comforted by facts. He was going to catch that train. I was certain.

As he got up to leave, my mother made the next move. She stepped in and saved us the embarrassment of skirting round our friendship any longer. ‘Why don’t we invite Arthur for dinner, before I go home? Perhaps I could rustle up a nice meal with the cold turkey,’ she suggested.

‘Sounds like a plan. I’d love that Mrs…?’

‘Carrington. But call me Hazel please, Arthur.’

‘What a lovely young man. You’ve been keeping him well under wraps,’ she said as we watched him stride down the stairwell towards platform four.

‘I gave him your phone number. I hope you don’t mind. He seems too good to let go.’ My mother chuckled, the matchmaker, the picker of suitors, as she staggered to her feet.

We only had to wait three days for the call.

49

Rebecca

Claustrophobia, boredom and my mother’s incessant one-sided monologues acted in his favour.

The three days which followed on from the meeting with Arthur dragged. Other than a brief outing to the Boxing Day sales, I was trapped inside the flat with Mum. By the time the phone call came, I put misgivings to one side in return for the chance of conversation involving subjects other than growing old.

My mother’s weakened bones weren’t quite so brittle after meeting Arthur. His flirtation and flattery had put a spring in her step. She compiled a shopping list for his visit, weighing him up as a potential son-in-law. I took the easy option and let her get on with it.

By 7.30pm the table was laid, the casserole simmering in the oven. I went to change, closing the bedroom door in a vain attempt at privacy. Only another three days with my house guest and I could get my life back.

The first real pangs of doubt hit me when the bell rang on the dot of eight. I didn’t really know Arthur. While my mother’s presence lent me a sense of bravado, I harboured niggling doubts. Who was he? Had he really been at Kings Cross by chance? Perhaps he’d been waiting for me at the gym, determinedly cycling until I turned up.

Arthur arrived, not a minute early, not a minute late. I thought he mightn’t be able to locate the entrance for at least five or ten minutes as it was round the side of the building. There were four buzzers, each one linked to a different flat.