After a quick shower, I threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt and drove to the nearest supermarket, where I found myself tossing duck pâté, Earl Grey tea, macaroons, quail’s eggs and smoked salmon into my trolley, and asking at the meat counter whether they had any grouse.

So much for letting Ollie Matheson take me as he found me.

‘There’s some kangaroo steaks in the freezer section,’ the girl behind the counter said. ‘It’s a new range. There’s alligator too.’

I’d never cooked a reptile before, and didn’t fancy starting now. ‘It’s OK, I’ll take a couple of partridges instead.’ What if he only ate fish, or was a vegetarian?

Ambushed by a surge of panic, I dashed to the fish counter and bought a turbot and some mackerel, then picked out the most exotic vegetables I could find. I could always google how to cook a Jerusalem artichoke.

In the drinks’ aisle, I started checking out vintage champagne, wondering whether Ollie would prefer cocktails and, if so, how I could learn to make them. Snapping back to my senses, I settled on a bottle of £5.99 red wine, put back the macaroons and Earl Grey tea and threw a packet of crumpets into the trolley, along with some bacon and a jar of coffee, and the ingredients to make mince pies.

Maybe Ollie Matheson will appreciate my homemade pastry.

With that thought, something inside me unclenched. Maybe I should embrace the situation, instead of getting worked up. OK, so it was completely random, and if I had to entertain a celebrity at home I’d have preferred a female, but nothing like this was likely to happen again, and it might even be fun. Hadn’t I wanted a total change? Wasn’t that why I’d moved to Shipley? I might even get some material for my novel.

Returning to the drinks’ aisle to get some vintage champagne, I decided to scrap my gothic mystery and write something contemporary instead. A satire, perhaps, on the fickle world of reality television. Ollie would have plenty of anecdotes, and might even give me a quote for the cover, in return for my hospitality.

‘That’ll be ninety-eight pounds forty,’ said the assistant, looking sideways at my shopping, which she’d thrust down the conveyor belt with unnecessary force. ‘Looks like you’ve got royalty coming to stay.’

‘Something like that.’ I was ashamed to feel a treacherous thrill. Ollie Matheson was hardly royalty, even if he had attended the same school as princes William and Harry.

Perhaps he’d met them! He was a couple of years younger than Prince Harry, but must have been there at the same time. I’d had a little crush on Harry, which Max had been jealous of, criticising him whenever he appeared in the press, as if there was a possibility he might rock up at the school one day and sweep me off my feet.

Back at the cottage, I put away my shopping, put some washing in the machine, and spent the afternoon cleaning the already clean cottage to work off my nervous energy, before baking enough mince pies to feed the whole of Shipley. I also made a fruit cake soaked in brandy, and a couple of apple pies, snacking on dried fruit while I worked. I sang along to a medley of Christmas songs on an old radio I’d brought from Mum’s, and by the time I’d finished, the cottage was warmly fragrant with baking smells, and I was pleasantly tipsy on half a bottle of red wine. Outside the window, darkness had fallen, punctuated with brightness and colour from the Christmas displays. I looked out for a moment, enjoying the twinkling lanterns gilding the branches of the tree in the garden opposite, and the flashing ‘Happy Christmas’ sign on the gate.

My new home! I sighed happily as I liberally dusted the mince pies with icing sugar, and poured some more wine.

‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, tra-la-la-la-laaaaaaaa la-la-LA-LAAAA!’ I warbled, grabbing my glass as I danced into the hallway, where I screamed with fright as a pair of gleaming orbs appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Marmite, you… beast,’ I shrieked, clutching my chest as the cat sauntered down, sleek as a panther. ‘What are you doing here?’

Figuring he’d crept in that morning while the door was open, I hurtled upstairs to check for damage. After a few hours cooped up, he’d probably wreaked havoc, or at least done his business somewhere. But apart from a still-warm indent in the middle of my duvet, there was no sign he’d done anything but sleep.

Back downstairs I attempted to shoo him out, but he was stretched along the back of the sofa, staring at the blank television screen as though waiting for his favourite programme to start.

Intimidated, I backed out, banging my heel on the corner of the boxed-up Christmas tree in the hall. I should probably put it up. It would save me a job in the morning, when I would be busy with the new bed arriving, and getting myself ready for Ollie’s arrival. I hadn’t shaved my legs for a while, and even Mum had commented that they’d taken on the appearance of a hairy, mythical monster.

Not that I cared about a reality star seeing my furry shins; it was personal pride that was all. I needed to wash my hair too, which I hadn’t bothered brushing after my shower that morning, so it had dried in a tangle at the back.

I poured another glass of wine and took a long drink, before tearing open the Christmas-tree box with the help of some scissors and plenty of brute force.

The tree was in three separate pieces and far too tall to inhabit any of the rooms.

‘Boggle,’ I mumbled, dragging it all out, sweating in the heat from the kitchen and the radiators. I pulled off my top and threw it over the banister. Bending over the pieces of tree, I was aware of my waistband cutting into my stomach. The dried fruit I’d ingested, not to mention the wine, had made me bloated. I unfastened my jeans to release my muffin-top, and puffed out a breath of relief.

‘Come on!’ I cried, yanking the tree segments into the living room, leaving a trail of fake pine needles in my wake. Marmite looked round, as though finally registering my presence. ‘Fat lot of help you are,’ I scolded. ‘Sitting there like a king.’

I scratched my head, staring at the parts of tree, sipping more wine. Then it hit me – I could put it together without the middle bit! ‘Genius!’

Marmite yawned and closed his eyes.

‘I’ll do it on my own then, shall I?’

By the time I’d wedged it together the tree looked bottom-heavy, like a lady in a crinoline dress, but no one would notice once it was laden with baubles and lights – and at least it fitted nicely in front of the window. I stuck my tongue out at Marmite, and returned to the bags in the hall. After retrieving the tree lights and decorations, I ripped open the boxes and emptied them on the floor.

‘There’s an awful lot of them,’ I said, but it turned into a burp. ‘Oops, pardon me.’ I looked sheepishly at Marmite and giggled. His eyes were still shut. ‘God, you’re boring.’ Sheelagh was probably wondering where he’d gone. ‘You need to go home,’ I said.

Didn’t cats like playing with string? Perhaps I could lure him to the front door, and trick him into leaving.

I had some string tucked away in a kitchen drawer. Erin had laughed when she’d discovered the stash of ‘emergency’ equipment I’d brought back from my studio flat to Mum’s, and kept in my bedroom.

‘What emergency will ever require you to whip out a ball of string?’

‘You’d be surprised,’ I’d said, unable to think of anything in the moment.

After scrabbling my phone out of my back pocket, I texted Erin:

I noticed I’d had a missed call, but didn’t recognise the number. Probably one of those annoying home insurance calls I kept getting since ringing around for a good deal on the cottage.

I swayed towards the kitchen, widening my eyes as the floor tilted towards me. Mixing alcohol with dried fruit had clearly been a mistake. It must have fermented in my stomach and become more potent. I swallowed the final drop of wine, surprised to find the bottle was empty. I’d better eat a meal to soak it up.

I retrieved a cooked chicken leg from the fridge and plonked it on a plate, then turned to admire my mince pies. Mary Berry couldn’t have done better. Impulsively, I picked one up and crammed it in my mouth, groaning with pleasure as the butter-soft pastry melted on my tongue. I took a selfie and sent it to Mum with the caption ‘PIE-FACED!!!!!’

She’d be glad I was settling in and having fun.

Next to the tray of cooling apple pies was a mud face-mask I’d bought in the supermarket, and I picked it up, doing a little shimmy as Justin Bieber’s new song came on the radio. I was startled by the sight of my naked, bouncing breasts reflected in the window, and fuzzily remembered I hadn’t put a bra on after my shower that morning, before dashing to the supermarket.

‘Booby boobs, booby boobs, boobies all the way,’ I sang, to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells’. ‘Oh what fun it is to have, a pair of booby booooobs.’ I jiggled them for effect, then tore open the sachet with my teeth and slathered the gooey mask all over my face. The last time I’d used anything like it had been on my sixteenth birthday, in the hope it would eliminate an outbreak of spots, but all it did was trigger a rash, and I’d spent my party hiding in the bathroom.

Obviously the ingredients were more sophisticated these days, but it still felt as though I’d smeared quick-setting concrete on my face.

‘No pain, no gain,’ I intoned through gritted teeth, arms outstretched like a Dalek, suddenly remembering why I’d come into the kitchen.

After washing my hands and drying them on my jeans, I found the ball of string, which I took to the living room, staring in shock at the baubles and lights scattered all over the floor. Hadn’t I put them on the tree? I was sure I had. And why was the tree so fat on the bottom and leaning to one side?

‘Blasted cat,’ I muttered. ‘Don’t you know I’ve got visitors coming tomorrow?’ I looked around, a prowling headache making my eyes scrunch up. ‘Marmite?’

Hearing a crash behind me, I pelted back to the kitchen to see the cat on the worktop with the chicken leg clamped in his mouth.

‘Drop it!’ I ordered, feeling my face mask crack. ‘That’s my dinner, you little… varmint.’ Unwinding the ball of string I dangled a length in front of him and jigged it about. ‘Here, kitty, kitty.’ I tried to make my voice enticing, but Marmite was having none of it.

He leapt to the floor and slipped past me, the chicken leg jutting from his jaws.

‘Come here, you… son of a banana.’

As I dived to grab him, I became aware of a bright white light shining under the front door, as if a spaceship had landed in the garden.

‘What the…?’

Marmite paused, as if spotting the light too, and I took the opportunity to grab him and scoop him up. ‘Give me that.’ I tried to wrench the chicken leg from between his teeth, as if I could possibly eat it now. He held on, writhing in my arms. Extending his claws he lashed out at my upper arm.

‘Ow!’ I howled, dimly aware that someone was rapping urgently on the door. ‘What?’ I cried, tugging it wide, reeling from a rush of cold air. A beam of white light filled my vision, and I remembered a programme I’d seen about people convinced they’d been abducted and probed by aliens. ‘What’s going on?’ I whimpered. Shielding my eyes with the forearm that wasn’t wrapped around Marmite, I could just make out the shape of a man on the doorstep. His head wasn’t typically alien-shaped, but that didn’t mean I was safe. ‘Who… who are you?’

‘Wow!’ said a male voice, with a hint of comedy poshness. ‘Now that’s what I call a greeting! Is it a Maori thing, with the bare breasts and face paint? Should we press our noses and foreheads together?’

Too late, I remembered I was half-naked, and tried to arrange the cat across my chest, but he chose that moment to make a bid for freedom, erupting from my grasp with a yowl.

‘Switch that thing off, Craig,’ the man said, in cut-glass vowels, and as the bright light abruptly vanished I had a vague impression of another man, holding the sort of camera normally used for filming.

Filming. Noooooooooooooo! It couldn’t be. Unless I’d entered some sort of time warp, surely it was still the same day?

‘You’re early,’ I whispered, my stomach rolling queasily, trying to fix my gaze on Ollie Matheson’s features. My eyes wouldn’t focus properly. It was dark without the hall light on, and his face was cast into shadow, despite the flashing lights from the surrounding houses.

‘I wanted the element of surprise,’ he said, cheerily. ‘Plus, I fancied going incognito.’ His head moved, as if looking behind him at the street, his voice unnaturally loud. ‘Didn’t want the selfie brigade out because they knew I was coming.’

I tried to blink my way to some sort of clarity, but it was no good.

‘Lily Ambrose, I presume?’ I sensed him looking more closely. ‘Is it a make-up thing? Contouring I think it’s called. I saw something about it on an episode of the Kardashians.’

Oh god, the face mask. ‘It’s got moisturising properties,’ I said, squiffily. Behind Ollie Matheson, the other figure made a sound that could have been a yawn or a groan signifying either boredom or displeasure. ‘Gotta go,’ I said. With one arm fastened across my upper half, I stepped back and slammed the door.

The letter box rattled. ‘Hey, are you OK?’

Stomach rising, I grabbed my top from the banister and dragged it over my head, then stumbled upstairs and made it to the bathroom in the nick of time.