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eyes. His hair is dark, almost black, and never out of place. It is expertly styled I suspect so that whatever the wind does it always falls back where it should be. I may be biased, but to me he is perfection on legs, a gorgeous specimen of male beauty. I’ve never seen him looking less than perfectly groomed, the contrast between us startling at times.
    Even so, I enjoy his company when he is here, and he seems to like mine. He always asks how I’m feeling, and once my course of antibiotics was completed he started offering me a glass of red wine most evenings. We sit together, on his long black leather sofa. Matt watches the news on television, and I watch him. We both sip our wine and the silence is companionable.
    Matt likes books. He has lots of them, in every room except mine. His tastes range from bestsellers by the likes of Clive Cussler and Andy NcNabb, to autobiographies and the classics. Dickens, Shakespeare, even Jane Austen. His non-fiction tends to be scientific, and in answer to my query he explains that he studied environmental sciences at university and now works for a firm specialising in renewable energy research so he likes to keep up with the current thinking. He assures me he has read all his books, or most of them at least, and for the best in fiction he recommends I try the Brontes.
    Much to my amazement, I am now a third of the way through Jane Eyre, and loving it.
    It’s been ten days since that night Matt scooped me up from the underground car park in Leeds and brought me here. Ten days in which I have slept for twelve hours in every twenty four, eaten enough to nourish a small army, made free with his hot water, his toiletries, his CD collection and his satellite television, and gradually recovered my health.
    Doctor Sue called in this morning and did a final check. She says I’m fine again now, though she doesn’t really recommend sleeping rough as a healthy lifestyle choice. Unfortunately I’m short of other options, and however comfortable I might be feeling here, it’s time to be moving on. Matt offered me temporary respite, not a permanent home. I’m not eager to leave, but I resolve to raise the matter with him this evening, when he gets back.
    Except he doesn’t come home. It’s after midnight when I finally give in and go to bed, and still there’s no sign of him. I know he’s a big lad, and it’s really none of my business, but I’m disappointed not to see him and perhaps a little worried, but more than anything I’m relieved to be able to put off the conversation for another day.
    I make a point of getting up when I hear him moving about the following morning. It’s just after six and I know he can’t have had more than about four hours’ sleep, but still he looks fresh and alert when I join him in the kitchen.
    “Sorry, did I wake you?” He glances up from his coffee to regard me, framed in the doorway, barefoot, my hair all over the place and swamped by his Superman T-shirt.
    “No. I was listening for you.”
    “Oh?” He reaches for the coffee jug and pours me a cup.
    I take a seat opposite him.
    “Is there something you need, Beth?”
    Yeah. Shall we make a list? “No. Well, yes. I need to talk to you.”
    He lifts one perfect eyebrow, and waits.
    “I’m better now.”
    “I know. I’m glad.”
    Glad because it means he’ll get his home back to himself again? I take a sip of my coffee and plough on.
    “So, I don’t need to be here any longer.”
    He places his cup back on the table and watches me. I find myself squirming under his long, slow perusal. At last he speaks. “Do you need to go? Do you want to?”
    I shake my head. “No. Bloody hell, no. I love it here. You’ve been… you’ve been… wonderful.”
    “So, why move out?”
    “I have to. You didn’t ask me to live with you forever. You just put me up for a few days, when I needed it.”
    “You still need a place to sleep. Unless you’ve made other arrangements?”
    “You know I