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Adam, he really did make a mess of everything.
    Sam had woken just after seven p.m. He was hungry but not enough to get dressed and venture into the town. However, there was no food in the house and he’d never make it to morning without eating something. He went to the car to find his cell phone. The dog next door had barked, panted and slobbered some sort of welcome and he wondered if he should introduce himself to the occupants of the house – maybe they had a local takeaway menu he could borrow – but he decided against it. He was in a robe, after all, and he wasn’t hungry enough for introductions. Upstairs he took a long hot shower, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a plain T-shirt and went downstairs to the sitting room.
    He looked around his new and alien environment for the first time. The cottage was cute. The kitchen could stand to be bigger but the sitting room had great character, with its wide fireplace made out of grey rock, blackened in places by many log fires. A ridiculously comfortable sofa was positioned directly in front of it, and to his left, a large window looked out at the grey hills and black sea. Funny – the hills were kinda purple and the sea was definitely navy last night . It was then he noticed that the house came without a TV. Weird . The shelf under the coffee-table contained a number of books. He sank into the sofa and began leafing through them.
    The Bourne Identity by Robert Ludlum. Saw the movie, and the mini series. Matt Damon did a fine job. I never did like Richard Chamberlain. His mind rambled on, as he debated which book he’d lose himself in. Birdsong maybe, although war was depressing and, since he was alone in a foreign nation and had just come off heroin, it might be wiser to choose something more uplifting. He picked up a rather thick book entitled The Deptford Trilogy by Robertson Davies. Hmmm, three for the price of one. The blurb was interesting: myth, magic, saints, Satan, illusion, reality. It all sounded like his past year. He decided, in the absence of a TV, that he would dedicate himself to reading his first book since high school. But before that he had to eat – his appetite had returned halfway through his marathon shower. He searched the house for leaflets from takeaways, came up empty-handed and knew he had no choice but to venture next door.
    Mary was sitting on the sofa. Mr Monkels was sprawled at her feet on his bed in front of the fire. She was drinking a glass of wine Penny had poured for her – she had found a stray bottle of red under the stairs once she’d consumed all the beer. Penny was sitting in the window nursing her drink, watching the white street-lights dance on the black water and absentmindedly swirling the contents of her glass. Nirvana had been replaced by James Taylor, and each girl was adrift in a world of her own until Penny’s voice broke the mood.
    “There’s a man out there,” she said, suddenly alert, peering through the curtain. “It must be your neighbour. It looks like he’s going to his car.”
    “Fascinating,” Mary said.
    “Oh, my God!” Penny said, dropping the curtain and sinking to the floor. “He’s coming to the door and he’s a total ride!”
    Mary laughed, thinking she was messing around, but then the doorbell rang and her heart skipped and she felt like a bold child on the verge of being caught. “Get up,” she whispered to Penny.
    Penny did so slowly, and slunk across the room to stand in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room.
    Mary viewed the front door, feeling a little panicked. This man had been her neighbour for just twenty-four hours and already he was knocking on her door. Knickers! The knock came again so Mary opened it.
    Penny sighed audibly. She couldn’t believe it – her best friend’s neighbour was a Calvin Klein billboard underwear model, a box-office-breaking movie star, a chiselled god with pretty hair surrounding a beautiful face. Mary heard the sigh and didn’t