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potions she makes.’
    Kirsty rolled her eyes. ‘Alternative medicine. It’s all bullshit, Jamie. They’re all frauds and charlatans, the lot of them.’
    They had had this conversation before, so Jamie kept quiet. He wished he hadn’t mentioned it. It was one of Kirsty’s personal bugbears.
    ‘We get all these kids coming in who’ve been dragged by their parents from herbalist to homoeopath to acupuncturist to hypnotist. It’s all a waste of time. These people just offer false hope. They sell false hope. When none of these miracle cures work they end up in hospital. They put their faith in science again – but I’ve seen cases where it’s too late. This poor little boy who had leukaemia. His mother thought the NHS was a last resort – if you can believe that – and by the time he came in for treatment he was too far gone. He died..’
    Jamie sighed.
    ‘Well, she may be a fraud and a charlatan but she seemed really nice. I liked her.’
    ‘Hmm.’ She lay down the last sheet of newspaper. ‘So what was in your parcel?’
    ‘Oh, some books. Did you order them?’
    ‘No, I would have told you. What are the books?’
    ‘Let’s see.’
    He opened the box and lifted out half-a-dozen books, reading out the titles: ‘ Making Love Last – how to keep the sexual magic in your marriage. Burning Fat – a 20- minute workout. A History of Satanism. Australia – a guide to emigration. The British Beef Cookbook .’ Kirsty was vegetarian. ‘ The Book of Embarrassing Illnesses .’
    ‘Oh my God.’
    They both laughed. Jamie held up A History of Satanism , which featured a goat’s head and a pentagram on the cover.
    ‘Paul. It must be.’
    He took out his phone and sent Paul a text: Thanks for the reading material. Haha!
    A minute later Paul texted back. Eh??
    Jamie smiled. ‘I’ll get him back.’ He flicked through the sex manual. ‘Now, actually, this has got some good tips in it.’
    Heather came round at eight-thirty. She worked with Kirsty at St Thomas’s, and as they wielded their brushes – inch-by-inch turning the walls of the flat a pale, even blue – they chatted about people from work. Dr Singh was having an affair with an anaesthetist called Claire. Pat and Michael had had a blazing row about the allocation of beds in Ward F. Jamie enjoyed listening to their conversation. He had met most of the characters discussed, and listening to Kirsty and Heather gossip about their colleagues was like tuning in to a particularly interesting soap opera.
    ‘How’s Dracula?’ he asked Heather teasingly.
    ‘What? Oh God, him. He keeps hounding me, ringing me up, telling me he thinks he’s fallen in love with me.’
    ‘How sweet.’
    ‘He makes me feel sick. He really smells.’ She grimaced.
    ‘How’s Paul’s wild love affair with Wonderwoman coming along?’ Kirsty asked.
    ‘She dumped him,’ Jamie said.
    ‘Oh, poor Paul,’ said Heather.
    ‘I know. I think he really liked her. But he got an email from her saying they should call it a day. That she didn’t want to get serious.’
    ‘She dumped him by email? Nice.’
    ‘So now he’s young, free and single again,’ said Heather.
    Kirsty glanced up at her. ‘Why, are you interested?’
    ‘No, of course not.’
    Jamie and Kirsty exchanged a knowing look.
    ‘I’m not interested in Paul, OK?’
    Jamie laughed. ‘So why are you blushing?’
    ‘I’m not!’
    Before Heather could get any more embarrassed, the doorbell rang. Jamie looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. ‘Are we expecting anyone? Hey, maybe it’s Paul. Maybe he telepathically tuned in to your lustful thoughts about him, Heather, and came running.’
    Heather flicked paint in Jamie’s direction. ‘You’re such a wanker.’
    Chuckling to himself, Jamie went out to the front door.
    It was a pizza courier, holding out two boxes and a litre bottle of Coke. ‘That’ll be £21.’
    ‘But I haven’t ordered a pizza.’
    The courier checked the name and address on the order