My flat became an incident room. It was cathartic to pin up photos of Amber, Rebecca and the mystery men, my love rivals, on the wall to help devise a plan. I made notes beside the characters, clues to help analyse behavioural patterns. An old photo of me, taken by my mother when I turned twenty-one, was pinned at the top of the collage. I was the mastermind, the controller of hearts.

As I planned the future, I was transported back to my dark den in the roof space. I remembered how I used to watch my mother’s visitors through the spyhole. I would fight back the urge to leap out and slam a cricket bat down on someone’s head.

At first it was Connor’s dad, followed not long after by Mr Horton, one of our neighbours, but then I gave up on names until they all morphed into one. They became a common enemy usurping my mother’s love. Of course, I was now mature enough to realise that my mother had played an active part in the treachery, as Amber had done. A cricket bat would not be subtle enough, I mused. That was kids’ stuff. I would concoct a plan; an adult’s revenge. Someone had to pay. I would carry on as normal, using banality as my plotter’s disguise.

Rebecca was still my future, my perfect bride, but I had to be certain that she wouldn’t turn out like Amber; a selfish thoughtless whore.

After Cinema Saturday (neatly labelled as Incident No. 1 on my wall), I carried on as normal. I phoned Rebecca on Monday, asked all the pertinent questions: was she feeling better? How was work? Was she ready to tackle her first auction? What about dinner on Wednesday, as usual? Perhaps it could be my treat, a local restaurant?

I decided not to mention her coming round to my flat. I wanted her to believe that this was down to respect. I meant for her to feel safe and unthreatened by expectations which might arise. It was only as I surveyed my domain that I realised an invitation was further away than ever. The walls of my nerve centre might have made her question my sanity. I would eventually take down the pictures, notes and scribbling; but only once our future was secure.

Rebecca seemed different when I picked her up. She was relaxed, less edgy and more loving than of late.

‘Have you been drinking?’ I asked as she leaned over to kiss me in a rare show of affection.

‘No. I’m happy. Isn’t that allowed?’

‘Did the auction go well? You’ll soon be up on the rostrum,’ I said.

To contemplate that her high spirits might be down to anything other than work was unthinkable. I’d kept up my vigil and was confident no man was involved. I was certain.