Pushing the sleeve of my light grey jumper up, I check my watch yet again and stare blankly at the fingers without even seeing the time.
All the while I sense Brett watching me, though I try desperately to ignore him and feign nonchalance in a vain attempt to play it cool.

Damn I wish I hadn't worn a jumper under my leather jacket. Outside there's still a biting chill in the air, and I seem to recall the weather girl last night saying something about a late frost, but here in the cramped confines of the number 40 bus which is absolutely packed - to the point where I'm wondering how on earth we're ever going to get off, and I can just envisage us missing our stop because of not being able to get to the door - it is stiflingly hot.

The only available seats were right up at the front and initially Brett had seated himself across from me, but as other passengers got on he'd moved, presumably to spare me from being squashed in next to a complete stranger. So now I'm squashed in next to him instead.
I suppose I ought to be grateful, as I might've been trapped next to the man who appears to be wearing his breakfast down his shirt, and the stench of alcohol which hangs in the air around him makes me feel as if I could easily get drunk off the fumes alone. Alternatively I could've also ended up next to the elderly lady with the gravity-defying beehive, who is sat gibbering incoherently to herself under her breath. She smells like an old damp mop when the water hasn't been changed in a long while.

But sitting next to Brett is also proving to be rather problematic.
Our shoulders are touching, and whenever the bus hits a bump in the road - and there's plenty of them, I can tell you - his leg bumps into mine.
In stark contrast to Missus Mop and whiskey-breath, he smells utterly divine. His aftershave is like a strange combination of leather, cinnamon and petrol, but with flowery notes as well.

My keen sense of smell is both a blessing and a curse. I'm like a bloodhound and pick up all kinds of scents without meaning or wanting to.
I know Brett smelling so good should be a bonus, but that, and the way I can feel the muscles of his lean thigh pressing against mine through the thin material of his black trousers, alarmingly makes my nerves jangle.

"Are you alright?" He asks suddenly, and I almost jump in surprise. There's something about being in such close proximity to him that puts me on edge, and I'm convinced he knows it.

"Yeah, fine. Why wouldn't I be?" I manage casually.

"Well, that's about the fifth time you've checked your watch in the last two minutes."

I tense slightly at his words and annoyingly feel heat rising up my neck, winding its way to my face, betraying the awkwardness I feel.
Well done Brett, I think to myself. You've managed to make me feel even more uncomfortable by pointing out that I've been fidgeting nervously. But I'm not going to let him know that I've been repeatedly looking at my watch just to avoid having to look at him. It's bad enough him looking at me. Why can't he just look across at someone else? Though to be fair I can't say I blame him for not wanting to.

"I didn't realise you were keeping count." I reply sarcastically, forcing myself to look at him now.

He raises an eyebrow at me and looks comically unamused. "Are you worried about being late? Don't be, we've got plenty of time--"

"No I'm not."
I immediately want to kick myself. I should've just said yes and then it would've been a good excuse.

"Oh..." He looks suitably mystified now. "Is it because you're nervous?"

"W-what?"

"You know, about the appointment?"

I feel an instant rush of relief, which almost makes me laugh out loud "Oh that? No."

"Well what did you think I meant?"  He asks, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Oh God. Why does he have to be so damn inquisitive? It's difficult enough having his clear blue eyes scrutinising my face unwaveringly, without him questioning my every move.

After his sister - I'm struggling to remember her name despite its unusualness, and keep thinking stupid things like breadline, blind eye and bovine -  after she had left last night he'd gone to see her out and never returned, having presumably retreated to his room obediently to change his clothes.
I'd stayed for a couple more hours of MTV, sport, and musician-type chit chat, and when I had eventually left the house, a part of me almost expected him to suddenly reappear behind me. Like a gallant apparition, offering to walk me to the underground or something.
Luckily it had stopped raining, and as I'd made my way on foot - choosing to forgo bussing it to the station - I couldn't help glancing repeatedly over my shoulder just in case. But obviously he wasn't there. As usual, I was being ridiculous.

Quite unexpectedly though, he'd telephoned the flat at around 11:30pm, just when I'd given up on him calling and retired to bed. I had toyed with the idea of calling him, but for some reason I just couldn't bring myself to do it. As far as I knew, he hadn't told any of the others about our 'non-date' so I hadn't mentioned it to them either. Therefore I didn't want to run the risk of any of the others answering the phone. Damon especially.

I was just in the middle of brushing my teeth when the phone had eventually rang, so I'd ran from the bathroom with a mouth full of toothpaste, looking like a rabid dog in my eagerness to answer the call before my dad beat me to it.
The conversation had been brief, with Brett simply asking what time my appointment was, and he actually groaned as I informed him it was at 9:40am.
Clearly he isn't a morning person.

This morning as I'd waited with apprehension outside the front door for him to put in an appearance, I became increasingly agitated when he didn't arrive at 8:30 as we'd agreed. He eventually showed up at 8:50, apologising for 'running late' and his somewhat careless hair, coupled with his repeated yawning, suggested to me that perhaps he'd overslept. Although, after having already taken a thirty minute journey on the tube, his lateness could've been due to train delays. But I highly doubt it. As we'd walked in silence through the market to Southwark Road, he appeared to still be very much half asleep and incapable of conversation. At one point I feared he might actually walk into a lamp post, or nod off at the bus stop.

"I'm not nervous about anything." I insist now, and make a point of turning to look out of the window to escape the intensity of his gaze, and hope he'll leave it at that.

"Right." He draws the word out, sounding deliberately sceptical. But he says nothing else for the remainder of the journey. Seemingly having taken my less than subtle hint that I don't really want to engage in any further conversation.

Another few minutes of awkward silence pass before he stands and informs me that this is our stop. I quickly begin to follow him as he squeezes passed the other passengers who are standing, but about halfway down the gangway someone stands up right in front of me, blocking my way. Panicking, I try to keep on pushing through but some people are just so ignorant, they refuse to budge and I can't quite bring myself to shove them hard out of the way.
I try to peer around the solid wall of bodies, but seem to have lost sight of Brett completely - which normally wouldn't be easy to do, given his distinctive style and stature  - but he seems to have been swallowed up by the mass of unmoving commuters.

"Brett!" I call out helplessly, before practically begging the two men in front of me to move.
They begin shuffling aside but I can feel the bus slowing, preparing to stop, and at this point I'm convinced I'm going to be left behind.

Then all at once he's above me, having swiftly and effectively shoved the men aside.
"Sorry, I thought you were behind me. Come on." He urges, and quite unexpectedly reaches out and grabs hold of my hand.

For a split second I falter due to the sudden contact of his large hand grasping mine. It causes a strange tingling throughout my body, which feels a bit like getting goosebumps, but on the inside. He's moving efficiently back along the bus, towing me gently after him, so I don't have time to dwell on the strange sensation.

"'Sorry...'scuse me....cheers.." He repeats like a mantra in a commanding tone, as he forces people to move and let us through. He's clearly well practised at this form of manoeuvring on public transport, whereas I in comparison am a complete novice.

I follow behind him until at last we step onto the pavement, where he hastily lets me go. I feel quite pathetic and more childlike than ever, especially when he says, "I suppose it's a good thing I came after all. Otherwise you wouldn't have made it to the door."

"I would've eventually." I reply, hackles instantly rising. "I don't think I'd have been totally stranded without you."

His eyes narrow sceptically. "I dunno, you're too polite. You've gotta be ruthless on public transport down here."

"Sorry my Northern manners make me such a feeble passenger, but I'm not a native like you. I'm not rude."

"You've got a sharp tongue though. Is that a Northern attribute too?" He ventures, raising one dark brow. "Bloody hell, maybe I should've left you on the bus."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you." I mumble, feeling a stab of remorse. I'm forced to admit that well-maintained cynicism and a biting sense of humour, make up a rather large portion of my personality. "I couldn't get passed them, and I did panic a bit. They just wouldn't move and I'm not used to having to push and shove my way off a bus. Anyway....thanks, for um, rescuing me." I babble.

"No problem." He shrugs, then begins moving so I have to rush to fall into step beside him as he takes long, purposeful strides.

"My hero." I grumble sardonically, under my breath.

"My pleasure."

"What?"

"I still have hearing in one of my ears." He points out, levelling an indignant look at me.

"Well you keep rushing off, and my legs are shorter than yours."

"Are they? I hadn't noticed." His tone is laced with sarcasm, and I notice how the arrogant tilt of his head makes him look almost snooty. "I don't want you to be late for your appointment, that's all."

"I thought you said we'd have plenty of time?"

"Yeah, but I just realised you'll have to find the right department first."

His hands are tucked deep in his pockets now, his head down, as if he's focused solely on walking, and a lengthy silence ensues.

As we head along the street towards King's College Hospital we pass by a harassed looking mother, hampered with both an overzealous boxer dog straining on it's lead, and a vivacious toddler attached to her opposite wrist by one of those safety strap thingies.

Unable to resist, and hoping to lighten the mood, I nod in the direction of the somewhat frazzled looking woman. "I think I need one of those."

Brett lifts his head and looks across at them, and then at me. "What, a kids wrist strap? Or a lead?"

"Oh thank you very much." I say huffily, and fold my arms defensively across my chest. "So I'm a dog as well as a groupie!"

His mouth kicks up, and his eyes briefly meet mine. "I never actually said you were either of those things. You're just too touchy Sam, that's your problem."

"I'm the one with the problem? You even had a pop at me last night about being thick!"

"I'm only messin' with you. Haven't you realised that yet?"

It is then that I hear myself speaking without even realising what I'm saying. The words just come tumbling passed my teeth before my mind has time to process them. "No actually. I don't know you well enough, so how can I tell if you're being serious or just a sarcastic git?"

"Well I can assure you I'm not."

"Not what? Sarcastic or a git?"

"What do you think, Sam?"

"I think....you're quite possibly both." I say dryly.

His eyes glitter with suppressed mirth, as if he suddenly relishes my audacity, which for some reason surprises me. "Well, you may be wrong but for all I know you may be right."

Ugh. Infuriating sod.

"Well, that's about as clear as mud."

"Oh I'm sure you're clever enough to figure it out." He says, his voice gilded with amusement.

"Is that another dig?"

"Not at all. I meant what I said last night."

"Which was? You said quite a lot of things last night."

His gaze moves gently over my bewildered face, the daylight picking out intense topaz filaments within his icy-blue irises. "Brains as well as beauty."

My mouth goes suddenly dry, and for some weird reason I swear I can feel my heart fluttering at the base of my throat. "You....you seriously meant that?"

"Yeah. Deadly serious. Scouts honour."

"See, you're doing it again."

"What am I doing exactly?"

"I don't know whether you're being serious or not. Which definitely makes you sarcastic, as well as a git!"

He laughs gently, and the bubble of resentment that has been lodged in my chest begins to dissolve.

"I suppose there's only one way to find out what I'm really like." He muses, as if thinking aloud to himself. "You'd have to get to know me better, wouldn't you?"

And just like that, I forget how to speak. All brain power lost.
How do I respond to that?
I open my mouth to say something then close it again, making my teeth click together.

"What's the matter? Cat got that sharp tongue of yours?" He enquires coolly, a devilish smirk curling his fine mouth....which I'd quite like to slap right now, because I'm convinced he enjoys deliberately throwing me off balance.

"You remind me of a cat actually." I blurt stupidly, for want of something to say.

"Really?" By eerie coincidence, as if to validate my opinion, there now appears to be an almost predatory glint in his eyes. "Okaaay. Well I definitely don't have your tongue."

"Uh, I never said you did. I didn't mean it like that--"

"And I'm never likely to have it either. You made that pretty clear in the pub the other night."

"Brett, stop!" I'm ever so slightly mortified by his teasing, but in spite of myself, I can't keep from giggling.

Our perpetual discord seems to have changed into a kind of friendly challenge, tempered with something playful, and almost flirtatious.
Almost.

Passing by the line of ambulances parked outside the Accident and Emergency entrance, we make our way through the wide, automatic sliding doors. Inside, the waiting area is already full.
Nearby a man sits pressing what looks like a cold compress to his head, another is pinching a bloody dressing to his nose. Paramedics wheel a woman wearing a neck brace in on a trolley, and amidst the sound of phones ringing and doctors rushing back and forth, a child can be heard wailing.

"I really don't need to be here." Brett mutters as we join the queue at the reception desk. "I could just go with you to your check up and then maybe call back here afterwards if it's not as busy."

"No! This is A and E, it's always going to be busy. You need to be seen, I promised your sister." I remind him.

"Well I won't tell if you won't."

"No. You have to stay and get this sorted."

He groans and rolls his eyes at me. He does that a lot I've noticed. "Shouldn't you be finding the department you need?"

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

For a moment he must think I'm being serious but I let him know I'm joking this time by chancing a small smile, which he matches with a foxy grin of his own in response.

Only once Brett has given the clerk his details and booked in am I satisfied that I can leave him alone without having to worry that he might do a runner. And despite his protests that there's a two hour waiting time to see the triage nurse, I flatly refuse his invitation to accompany me to my appointment.

"But you won't know where you're going." He says, following me to the swing doors which lead out into a main corridor.
Clearly he must think that if I'm not even capable of getting off a bus by myself then there's no hope of me finding the department I need without him being there to hold my hand. Possibly quite literally. But I'm determined to prove him wrong.

"Neither will you. You've never been to this hospital before either. I'll ask someone. It's not a problem."

Shaking his head, he looks at me unconvinced. "You do have the name of the consultant though, yeah?"

"Yes of course." I reply confidently, as I fish out the crumpled piece of paper my dad gave me, from my jacket pocket. But as I unfold it my confidence wavers. "This...this can't be right. It must be a mistake."

"Why, what's it say?" He cranes his neck to see and immediately guffaws when he reads the name my dad has scribbled down

Dr Who.

"Stop it!" I chide, aware that his laughter is attracting the attention of several people. One of which is the ward clerk. She shoots us a disapproving look over the top of her wire-framed spectacles and I'm fleetingly reminded of my old school librarian. "My dad took the name down, he must've misheard or something."

Brett is trying to hold in his laughter but isn't doing a very good job of it "Either that or he's pulling your leg." He cackles. "I'm definitely coming with you now, this is too good to miss."

"Not a chance." I tell him flatly, trying desperately hard not to laugh myself. 
There's no way I'm going to have him giggling childishly at my awkwardness as I ask around the hospital for a 'doctor Who'. It's going to be embarrassing enough as it is.

He makes a face but obediently leaves me to my humiliating task, and we agree to my meeting him back here once I've been seen. Usually my appointments only take a couple of hours from start to finish, so chances are I'll be done before Brett....that is unless Doctor Who needs me to help him save the universe.

****************

The diabetic consultant I've been slotted in to see turns out to be a very pleasant oriental gentleman, who shakes my hand vigorously, insists on calling me "Sammy" and is in actual fact named Dr W.Ho.
An easy enough mistake to make when writing the name down, so I decide to let my dad off for his blunder.

After having asked several members of nursing staff where I can find Dr Who's clinic, and been met with curious blank looks or chuckles of "I don't think he works here" I resign myself to following the blue signs that hang from the ceilings of the stuffy corridors that reek of disinfectant, until I eventually find one which leads me to the diabetic ward.
It is in there, that they point out my error and kindly direct me to the diabetic clinic. At least when I finally arrive at the reception desk there I'm able to ask for him by his correct name.

I wait for around thirty minutes before at last I am called in, and go through the usual routine of having my height, weight and blood pressure checked. I never did see the point of the hospital staff checking my height, I mean it's not as if you're likely to shrink, and after the age of seventeen does anyone continue to grow much taller? Perhaps I'm wrong and they do, but it all seems rather pointless to me. Sometimes for devilment I wear my hair in a bun on top of my head, just to make the procedure difficult for them.

Unfortunately the same cannot be said about gaining inches around the waist though, as I notice to my horror as I step onto the scales, that I've gained around 9lbs in weight. Ugh. I thought my jeans were feeling a bit tight these days. Though it's hardly surprising considering all the junk food I've been bingeing on since being at dad's.

After I have blood samples taken, I'm told I need to wait for the results to come back, which can take a couple of hours depending on how quickly they can rush it through at the lab. So I've no alternative but to sit in the waiting room, flipping through old copies of magazines such as 'Home & Garden' and 'The Readers Digest'
In the background an old radio plays Classic FM, so after forty five minutes of sitting on a hard plastic chair listening to opera whilst reading an article on how to make the perfect hot water pastry, I could quite happily either strangle the singer warbling over the airwaves or myself, just to put an end to my misery.

I hear the door to the stuffy, magnolia painted room swing open for the umpteenth time and don't pay much attention to it until I sense someone drawing closer, so I glance up and almost fall out of my spine-torturing chair.

"Still here then I see." Brett grins down at me, making the small dimple appear in his right cheek. "I thought maybe the Doctor might have whisked you off somewhere in his TARDIS."

"No such luck I'm afraid. It seems he isn't in need of another companion." I smile back, as he sits down on the chair next to mine.

"Well, that's his loss. You can't cure diabetes with a sonic screwdriver anyway."

"If only." I sigh. "Anyway, what are you doing here? How did you even find me?"

Brett leans back casually and brings his leg up, resting his ankle on his knee. "Easy, I just asked at the main reception where the diabetic clinic was. I was seen quicker than expected. I reckon a couple of people must've got bored and left....or died. Most probably of boredom."

I narrow my eyes at him and he immediately responds to my look of suspicion. "Honest. I've been seen." As if to prove his point he holds up what looks like a prescription, and waves it around like he's presenting a piece of evidence. "See? I'll call at the pharmacy after you're done here."

"I think I'll be a while yet, I've got to wait for my results to come back. You could go to the pharmacy now actually."

"So you're the one trying to get rid of me now." Brett retorts, feigning hurt.

Ah, touché sir!

"Not particularly. I'm just thinking it'll give you something to do rather than being stuck here bored. Especially as it might be hazardous to your health."

"Aw, I didn't realise you cared."

I blush hotly at his joke, floundering for a witty comeback, but thankfully he looks thoughtful for a moment, and I assume he's weighing up whether or not boredom can actually be fatal. Though I'm sure if it were, they'd have been wheeling me out on a stretcher ages ago.

"Do you want to get a coffee?" He asks, surprising me yet again. He seems to be making a habit of that today. "There's a machine out in the corridor. Or we could go to the canteen if you like? Then you can grab somethin' to eat."

To say I am pleasantly stunned by his thoughtfulness is an understatement. But when I think about it I'm forced to admit that he does seem to be quite a considerate guy. Having proved this now on several occasions, from buying me a drink in the pub and remembering I drank diet coke, to ensuring I got home safely. Oh and not forgetting him coming to my aid on the bus of course. His suggesting I eat in order to avoid my blood sugar dropping low is just something else to add to the rapidly-growing list.

We locate the canteen on the first floor, and at length search for what we both consider to be edible food. The choice of hot offerings is limited, and the only sandwiches available contain either meat or fish.
I've never been a big fan of meat, simply because I just don't particularly care for it all that much. Save for the odd slice of bacon or McDonalds hamburger, I rarely eat it.
I explain this to Brett, after he mistakes my searching for a meat-free alternative as an indication that I'm a vegetarian.

He himself is, he informs me, and we stand for a while lamenting the limited options and discussing our mutual dislike of meat. Quite forgetting ourselves, we are only prompted into moving after the woman serving barks at us because we're inadvertently holding up the queue.
Brett then incenses her further by asking for two cheese toasties. She grumbles her discontent, and remarks that the reason we're both so pale is probably due to a lack of meat in our diet.
Needless to say we both find this highly amusing, especially given the leathery texture of her deep brown skin. If being a sun-worshipper means you end up looking like a shrivelled-up walnut, then I'd rather opt to remain pale.

We find a table and settle down to our glorified cheese on toast and cups of tea, though Brett wisely didn't push his luck further by asking for Earl Grey. He might've been at risk of being attacked with cutlery

"So, what's wrong with your ear?" I ask, as I watch him opening a third sachet of sugar.

"Perforated ear drum. I've been given antibiotics to prevent any infection and some painkillers, but I've just got to wait until it heals itself." He heaves a heavy sigh. "Looks like Blandine was right after all. No surprise there."

Blandine. That's it! Of course.

"Ouch! That sounds nasty. I think it's really nice how much your sister cares about you though."

"Yeah, but she can be a bit overbearing at times. As you know." He gives me a meaningful look, as if to say that us being here now together is a fine example.

"Tell me about it, my dad drives me mad. He's so overprotective, I'm sure he forgets I'm almost eighteen and not eight anymore."

"But he's your dad, so it's only natural. Especially with your condition." He says knowingly. "When B was your age I'm surprised our dad didn't try making her a chastity belt out of my old meccano."

This renders me utterly helpless with laughter for almost a full minute and he must think I'm an absolute lunatic because I can see he doesn't seem to think his remark was that funny.

"At least my dad isn't quite as bad as that. But then again, we're not really all that close. My mother raised me on her own."

For a moment he looks a little awkward, as if he doesn't know how to respond. And to be honest I've surprised myself by opening up like this to him. I hardly know him. Yet somehow I'm suddenly finding him surprisingly easy to talk to.

"I was closer to my mum too." There's a distinct sadness in his tone as he absentmindedly begins stirring his tea again with the little plastic spoon.

Now it's my turn to feel awkward. I want to ask him about it but I wouldn't dare. It's unquestionably personal, and I have to remind myself again that we're not that well acquainted.
We sit quietly for a while whilst we eat, and I'm mindful not to let the melted cheese that's oozing out from between the slices of toasted bread, dribble unattractively down my chin.

Once we've finished, we drink our tea and I ask Brett about his band. But unlike Damon, his answers are short and simple, telling me that they've been playing pubs and clubs since they formed three years ago, and that a reporter from the Melody Maker had turned up to watch them the previous weekend. The following Monday the same reporter had contacted their manager, wanting  to do the photoshoot and interview, but Brett had no idea the man intended to run such an attention-grabbing headline or put them on the front page.

As he talks, I find myself growing increasingly excited on his behalf, such overnight success is something that most musicians can only dream of.
For some reason though Brett doesn't appear anywhere near as enthused as one would expect him to be, and inexplicably he's more keen to ask questions about my life.
He repeatedly steers the conversation back to me, which is a novel experience and somewhat confusing.
I've always found that usually people want to talk more about themselves, and have little interest in what I might have to say. So I tend not to talk very much.

But with Brett the questions keep coming, like when's my birthday? Where precisely am I from? Then it escalates to asking what I do back home, so I tell him about my boring part-time sales assistant job in a cheap clothes shop. I even tell him how I can't stand my supervisor, and how I'd leave if I didn't need the money to save up for driving lessons.

At first I feel defensive, like I'm being interviewed by a stranger, but the more I talk the more natural it feels. He doesn't ignore, interrupt, or talk over me, and that actually feels really good. I know he's paying attention, he isn't at all distracted by anything as he goes on to ask me what my interests are, and sounds genuinely interested.
So I tell him about my secret love of photography and how I plan to study it at college in September. He listens patiently, looking at me closely. Taking everything in.

When the conversation turns back to my father and what he does for a living. I begin to worry about boring him. He does work in the music business after all, so telling him about the small record shop my dad owns in Camden Town, isn't exactly going to fascinate him. In fact it seems positively lame compared to what Brett does....Mister Rock God of the Year.
As it turns out, I'm unable to supply any further information on the subject anyway, as I admit somewhat shamefaced, that I've yet to even see the place.

"Why haven't you been over to check it out yet?" Brett asks as he sets his polystyrene cup down on the table. "Camden's really cool as well. I think you'd like it."

Another question. And this is one I don't know how to answer. What am I supposed to say? That I've been too busy being a recluse? That I'm a rubbish daughter but awesome hermit?

I shrug my shoulders. "I probably would. I just haven't really been out much. I should go, I mean I do love music, but I don't share dad's passion for vinyl. He's obsessive about it, but it's like he's stuck in some kind of time warp. He won't sell anything other than old-school rock, and from what my stepmother tells me, it's really affecting the business."

"Vinyl is cool, but he sounds a bit like my dad. Except with mine it's classical music. That's where Blandine got her name from, he named her after Franz Liszt's daughter...Franz Liszt is his favourite composer."

"Wow. I had wondered about that to be honest."

"Oh it could've been worse for me, he wanted to call me Horatio or Wolfgang."

Judging by his expression, I can tell that he isn't joking. In this short time I've spent with him I've come to notice Brett has a very expressive face. And he looks deadly serious, with no hint of playfulness in his voice.

"Oh my God, really? Wolfgang? You mean after Mozart?"

He nods his head, looking quietly impressed that I know the famous composers' first name. "Yeah. And Horatio because I was born on Nelson's birthday. Luckily for me, mum talked him out of it. Otherwise my life at school would've been pure hell."

"Hmm, I don't know. Maybe if your name was Horatio, but I think Wolfgang kind of suits you." I tease. "You know what? From now on I'll call you Wolfie."

He shoots me a warning look, as if to say "don't you bloody dare." as we dispose of our empty cups and begin to make our way back downstairs.

***********

No sooner are we seated back in the waiting room when I'm called in for my results, and I can't resist responding to Brett's sniggering as Doctor Ho once again calls me Sammy.
"You've got nothing to laugh about....Wolfie."

He sticks his tongue out at me, and I laugh. Then just before I close the door behind me, he winks. 

I find it difficult to concentrate as Dr Ho talks, my mind on Brett and his flirtatious winking habit. and I have the unsettling suspicion that if I had my blood pressure checked now it'd be through the roof.

But the tests I've had give an overall average of what my blood sugars have been running at, so I'm brought back down to earth with a bump when the doctor informs me they're running too much on the high side for his liking.
I'm not entirely surprised by this news, because despite my occasional 'hypo' I have been eating a lot of chocolate recently and not getting any exercise.

I'm sent away with my tail between my legs, after being told that I must take better care of myself and watch what I'm eating.

I relay this to Brett once I rejoin him, only because he asks.
Perhaps this time he feels compelled to, seeing how I leave the room far less jovial than I had entered. Either I am far too easy to read or he's very perceptive.
But what he asks next as we stroll back along the corridor to the pharmacy, catches me completely off guard. Though I should've known it was just a matter of time before he asked the inevitable....

"So what actually brought you to London, Sammy? Being as you've not been doing anything since you arrived."

I involuntarily stiffen, not even reacting to him calling me Sammy, as I realise with a start that up until now, I hadn't actually thought about Mark at all today.
"I...I just needed some time away for a while."

For once, Brett doesn't press me further on the subject. No doubt having noticed the way I've suddenly clammed up. And I'm grateful for his understanding.
I don't want to talk about Mark and the way he has cheated on me repeatedly. The humiliation would be more than I could stand.
Besides, I really don't want to bore Brett further. His life is far more interesting than mine, so what interest is it to him really?
He has probably only been humouring me with polite conversation.

Distracted by unwanted thoughts of my ex, and my mundane existence in general, I'm most definitely not prepared for what Brett says when he does speak again.
"Well, if you're stuck for something to do then you can always give me a shout sometime."

"W-what?" I stutter, feeling a sudden lurch of excitement in my chest.

"It's just a thought that's all. If you wanna get out the flat for a bit. I could show you around, and I don't mean like bloody Buckingham palace, Nelson's Column or Trafalgar Square...I'm not a tour guide."
He leans down on the pharmacy counter to sign the prescription and glances up at me from beneath his dark lashes.
I swallow hard.
"And unfortunately I'm no Doctor Who either, so I can't promise exciting adventures."  He continues. "But if you just fancy some company that isn't your stepmother,  give me a call."

I pull my attention away from those mesmerising eyes and try to focus on what he is actually proposing. He hasn't made it sound like a date, but I suddenly feel shy as though he is asking me out.
But he isn't, I tell myself sternly. He wouldn't. He's now practically famous, he has songs to record, and then of course there's Damon to consider.

Then again, Damon and me aren't officially an item as such. At least I don't think so, regardless of how much I might want us to be. We haven't even arranged to see each other again as yet. He'd simply said he'd ring me as soon as he's free, which I am perfectly okay with. He's going to be busy in the studios recording his new album.

So what do I do in the meantime? Sit around watching mind-numbing daytime TV, getting fatter whilst stewing over my failed relationship with a cheating bastard.

Or I could take a chance.

"Yes." I say hurriedly, before I have time to rethink everything and change my mind. "That would be nice. Thank you."

"Cool." He smiles at me, and for the first time since we've met it isn't a grin or smirk. It isn't a smile of mockery or laughter, it's a genuine, heart-stopping smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes. "How about I call you tomorrow to arrange somethin'?"

I smile back coyly, hoping he doesn't notice me blushing now. "Sure. I'll look forward to it."

And whether I should or I shouldn't, I wholeheartedly will.