When I woke the next morning, John was still snoring beside me. The room was freezing cold. I threw on the thickest jumper I could find, my jeans and all my socks, and stumbled downstairs. I lurked outside the kitchen for a second but when I heard nothing from within dared to enter. My vigilance was rewarded. There was no-one in there, although the range had been lit and the room was at a bearable temperature. I rustled up tea and while waiting for it to brew did the washing-up just because I couldn’t bear seeing it left to congeal.

The trouble with cleaning is that once you get started you find you can’t stop. Once I’d done the washing-up, I couldn’t help noticing that the floor could do with a clean, and the sink, and the countertops and the kitchen table. My tea got cold and I had to brew a fresh pot. Just as I was sitting down for what I felt was a well-earned cup, together with a rich tea biscuit that I’d found in a half-opened packet in the larder, the back door opened and Charlie tramped in, muddying up my beautiful floor with his wellies, and followed by the dog, who finished the job. The latter skidded a bit on the damp floor and ended up under the kitchen table, where he promptly lay down and thumped his tail once or twice, trying to look as though that was what he had intended to do all along.

“Eek!” I squeaked protestingly at the bootmarks and footprints.

Charlie didn’t seem to register it. Geek. He eyed me suspiciously and then grunted reluctantly, “Morning.”

“Tea?” I said, deciding that it was pointless to stress the floor-cleanliness issue. “Just brewed.”

“Uh.”

I took that as a yes. I poured him a mug and he sat down at the table, legs planted firmly apart, and drank, staring straight in front of him.

It was intensely awkward. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been semi-naked. And he knew what I sound like when I come, which is not something even very close friends of mine know. Even thinking about it made me go bright red. I buried my face in my own mug, hoping that the steam would explain my rosy cheeks.

Just as I was resolving to make some excuse about taking John up a cup and doing a vanishing act, he put his mug down and said abruptly: “How long are you staying?”

“We’re heading back on Monday, I think.” (Or sooner, please God.)

“Has he come down to try to get me to sell the house again?” Before I could answer, he added: “You can tell him to forget it. I’m not changing my mind. And tell him to stop coming down here.”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” I said, a bit fed up.

“I’ve told him till I’m blue in my face. The stupid bastard doesn’t give up. Pardon my French.”

“I don’t think he would listen to me, if he hasn’t listened to you,” I confessed, quite happy to get myself out from between the warring brothers.

He said nothing for a bit but kept his nose stuck in his mug as if he were excavating for plutonium in the puddle of tea at the bottom.

Then he said, “What are you doing with him anyway? He’s such a tosser.”

That’s what so refreshing about engineers. They just come right out and say what’s on their mind. Social niceties, what are they?

“No,” I said, sounding unconvincing even to myself. “He can be very sweet.”

“Sweet?” He sounded contemptuous. “You must be barking.”

“Look, it’s none of your business,” I said trying to assert myself feebly. The good thing about people being rude is that it liberates you to be rude yourself.

“Yes, it is,” he said surprisingly.

“Oh, and why’s that? I suppose I should be going out with you instead,” I said facetiously, expecting him to scoff.

“You should,” he said, putting his mug down and looking me straight in the eye. I was struck anew with the startling blue of his eyes, which I’d forgotten about, and which now suddenly pinned me to my chair. “If you’re not too bothered about what kind of bloke you go out with – and you’re obviously not, if you’re with the Dog – you should go with me instead.”

I was blushing furiously but I managed to say, and even succeeded in sounding quite lighthearted, “Do you try this routine on all of John’s girls?”

He shook his head. “They’ve all been nightmares up till now. You’re the only one I’ve liked. You’re the first one who’s ever done the washing-up. And you’re definitely the prettiest. The moment I saw you I thought you were with the wrong bloke. You could definitely do better.”

“And that’s you, is it?”

He shrugged. “You could do worse. At least I wouldn’t cheat on you.”

“John’s not cheating on me!”

He looked quizzical. “You think so? Believe what you like.”

“He’s not! How do you know?”

“I don’t know. I’m just going by past form.”

“People change,” I said, although it was news to me that John was a serial philanderer. It struck me how little I really knew about him. I’d been so busy marvelling at my mysterious good fortune in managing to get the attention of someone so conspicuously out of my league, that it hadn’t even occurred to me to try to find out if this particular god had any clay in his make up.

Charlie tilted his head down, scratched the back of his neck, and raised one eyebrow at me, in a manner expressive of the deepest scepticism.

“Alright,” he said. “But the offer’s there anyway.”

He left that lying in the air between us like gelignite on a hotplate. I was feeling tense and defensive and realised it was because somewhere back in that conversation I had been insulted.

“You don’t think a lot of yourself, do you?” I said. “You go around slagging off your brother. John’s a catch and not just compared to you. He’s a partner in his firm. He’s handsome and charming. He knows about wine and all the best restaurants to go to and the best places to stay at. He drives a Merc. He’s excellent at tennis. He can go anywhere and people like him and admire him and want his opinion on things, I’ve seen them. And you, you slope around this tumbledown house, covered in mould, like some wild man of the woods, you’ve got nothing to show for yourself and you come on to me, as if I’d go for you in a million years!”

I stopped because I was out of breath. He came round the table at me, looking as if he were about to hit me, and I hurriedly jumped up, tipping my chair over, as I did so, but before I could get out the door, he caught me by the arm so I couldn’t escape. We were so close I could smell his warm smoky scent again, his face was inches from mine, and he caught my gaze with his glittering eyes and said, very quietly, “I want to make you to come. I want to make you come the way you did last night.”

Oh, God. I almost said to him, don’t worry, you already did. My heart was beating so fast it felt as though it were trying to escape out of my throat.

“Look,” I croaked. “People don’t talk to people like that.”

It sounded weak, even to me. I tried to pull my arm away, he held on, and then let me go. Suddenly he looked as contemptuous of me as he had last night.

“You’re as bad as the rest of them,” he said. “Forget I said anything. Get out of here. Go on.”