I made up my bed, hung my towel on a hook on the back of the door and lay on the bed with my book. I read the chapter on conversation. Each paragraph was headed by a maxim and I read them aloud to myself: ‘The art of conversation is the art of being a good listener’; ‘If you want to meet a person, first you must meet their gaze’; ‘Respect their space’; ‘Reinforce, don’t compete’; ‘When in doubt, talk shop’; ‘Yes, not yes but…’

My mate Ben’s uncle had put me in touch with a major refurbishment going on across the river in Camberwell. Two days after I moved in, I went down there and wandered round it with the guy who had been hired to do it. It was a fairly basic job, it was cash in hand and it was going to take at least three months. It was all so easy. It was early evening when I got back to Maitland Road. I wasn’t exactly sure what being a good housemate was like but I could avoid being a bad one. Don’t use up the hot water. I had a shower that lasted about a minute. I came downstairs and found Pippa alone, reading a magazine. Don’t be an obvious free-loader, especially at first.

‘I bought some wine,’ I said. ‘Would you like a glass?’

‘Sure,’ said Pippa. ‘Red or white?’

‘Whichever you like,’ I said. ‘I got both.’

‘Well, you can stay,’ she said cheerfully. ‘White, then.’

I poured two glasses and sat along the sofa from her, respecting her space. Be a good listener.

‘I’m sure this is going to come out sounding wrong,’ I said, ‘but you don’t look like a solicitor.’

‘That’s a relief,’ she said, sipping her drink.

‘So what kind of stuff do you do?’

She was really quite funny as she talked about the characters in her office and her strange, demanding clients. I was such a good listener. The book had said that in conversation men compete and women support. So I was really a woman. A really terrific woman. Yeah, yeah, that’s right, I said. I see what you mean. Yeah, right, absolutely. Oh, that’s fantastic. I can’t believe it, you really did it? So what did he say? Bloody hell, what an idiot. I kept topping up the wine. I looked her in the eyes. I didn’t invade her personal space. I reached for the bottle to fill her glass again but it was empty.

‘Shall we move on to the red?’ I said.

She slid along the sofa and invaded my personal space. She put her hand on my forearm.

‘You know what one of the big problems with sharing a house is?’ she said.

‘No.’

‘No, you don’t, but I’m going to tell you. It’s the sexual tension. It ruins the friendships and it causes problems.’

‘I see what you mean.’

‘You can’t, because I haven’t said it yet. When we’re together, there’s all this ridiculous flirtation and will-they-or-won’t-they?, and then there’s probably some terrible break-up. It’s dreadful for the couple and almost as bad for everybody else. You probably know about Astrid and poor Miles.’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Basically they got together and it was hopeless and she dumped him and he’s been mooning around ever since.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It was so boring. It is so boring. Now he’s got some new girlfriend. She’s like a weapon for him to brandish at Astrid. There. Look what you made me do.’

Pippa stroked my arm reflectively and then continued: ‘Now you’re here, there’ll be all this new tension.’

‘You reckon?’

‘It’s unavoidable. We’ll be brushing up against each other. We’ll bump into each other wrapped in towels on our way from the shower.’

‘I don’t want to complicate things,’ I said.

She ignored me and moved even closer. ‘The only way to deal with it is to get it out of the way at the beginning.’

‘How do you mean?’

She stroked my face and gave a slow, lazy smile. ‘You know,’ she said.

‘What? Now?’ I felt her nuzzling against me.

‘It’s not compulsory,’ she said, ‘but it’d be fun. And then we can go on to being friends.’

‘But where?’

She pulled a face. ‘Well, not here. Someone might come home. Let’s go to my room.’

‘Shall I bring the wine?’

‘No, we’ll have it later.’

She took my hand and led me upstairs, talking as she did so. It was something about household routines or someone’s bad habits. But I couldn’t concentrate on the details. The blood was rushing in my ears. I could hear it. I felt hot. The situation had moved beyond my control and I wasn’t sure how it was going to end up. She led me into the room at the front of the house by the front door. Suddenly it all seemed to be happening to somebody else, or at least to somebody else as well as me. I could imagine that somebody else might find her room charming in its disorder, the clothes tossed everywhere, the bed unmade, the curtains closed. There was a clash of smells: perfume and deodorant and soap. I was repelled by it. I wanted to sweep it off the floor and throw open the windows, let in light and fresh air.

Pippa took hold of her T-shirt and pulled it over her head, revealing a black bra covering her small breasts. She kicked off her shoes and unfastened the buttons on the front of her jeans. She sat on the bed and leaned back.

‘Pull them off,’ she said.

She was as matter-of-fact as if we were going to play squash. I took the bottom of each leg of the jeans and pulled. She lifted herself off the bed and I eased them off. With expert speed she unclipped her bra, pulled down her panties, got into the bed and pulled the duvet over her. I glimpsed her dark nipples and her neatly trimmed pubic hair. Someone else would find this beautiful. They wouldn’t believe their luck.

‘Now it’s your turn,’ she said.

I took my clothes off with the grim feeling I had been tricked into going somewhere I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t think of a way to make it work. I got into the bed next to her and she pushed her face against me. I kissed her. I could taste the wine on her tongue. I had the uncomfortable sensation of being on the wrong side of her, like a left-handed person trying to do something right-handed.

She put a hand on my arm and ran down it, across on to my chest and down, down my stomach. ‘Oh,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not… I don’t…’

‘No, it’s all right.’

‘No, I mean I…’

‘It’s all right,’ she said, grinning. ‘There’s no hurry.’

She kissed my chest and then began to move downwards, kissing me as she went. I grabbed her shoulders. ‘No,’ I said.

‘Relax.’

‘No.’

I pushed her away and got out of the bed. I had to look around for my clothes. For a desperate moment I thought they might have disappeared irretrievably into the chaos of her room. But I found them and pulled on my underpants, standing stupidly on one leg, then the other. As I pulled my jeans on, I saw her staring at me, amused. ‘It’s all right,’ she said.

‘Of course it’s all right,’ I said.

‘I mean, it’s not a big deal.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. I suppose you do this with loads of guys.’

Now she looked puzzled, though still amused. ‘What’s that about?’

She was sitting up in the bed. She hadn’t pulled her duvet up, the way actresses do in PG films to cover their breasts. It was probably the last time I’d ever see them. I walked over to her, shrivelled, humiliated, the blood burning in my face. ‘If you tell anyone…’ I said.

‘You’ll what?’ said Pippa.

‘Just don’t,’ I said.

‘Oh, don’t be silly, Davy. Why would I?’

I stamped my feet and walked out of her room and straight out of the house on to the street, where an icy drizzle soon soaked through my clothes. My eyes were aching. I felt furious with her for forcing herself on me like that, for not giving me a proper chance. And furious with myself for my failure. It wasn’t just that there’d been a battle between us and she had won, dominated me and humiliated me. Humiliated me in front of myself. But here in this house, where I was going to start again, become a new person. Already I’d dragged myself down. She’d tell the others. I’d heard the way she gossiped. She wouldn’t be able to resist it. Or maybe she would, because it would make her look like a slut, jumping into the pants of a guy who had just walked in off the street.