Did whoever planted them there run out of room and decide they may as well use my box too? Or is it a present for me? But who the hell would do that? Someone who doesn't mind stretching across a fairly decent-sized gap when they're eight floors up, for a start.
I lean forward a bit more, half my weight on the window handle, and then the window is caught by a gust and swings fully open. I swear, I nearly fall out. The ground seems to jump like a pogo stick and, for a second, I'm suspended, perilously close to tipping point. Then I manage to grab the window sill with my other hand and push myself back so hard I land in a heap on the floor. The window swings back and bangs shut, then out again, each thud in time with my heart, which has slowed right down. I'm used to it pausing for a bit, then speeding up, but it seems strange that in my fear it's fainter, not stronger and faster.
I realise I've got one hand doing little circles over the bump, which gives a tiny twitch, like the baby is saying, 'It's OK, I'm fine in here. But don't do it again, all right?'
'All right,' I whisper back.
And I realise: I was afraid. I didn't want to fall.
That has to mean something, doesn't it?
A little later, I've made a plateful of chicken, broccoli, carrots – which I've overcooked – and some slightly-too-hard-boiled potatoes. Lots of anorexics are amazing cooks, but then I'm not your average anorexic. And I hate cooking. If I had my way, I'd be a spirit floating about, all mind, and do away with food altogether. Not really an option right now.
I've measured everything out and it contains the right balance of calories, protein, etc. I put it, with one of the awful build-up shakes, on the little fold-out table and sit in front of it, watching it go cold.
This might be harder than I thought.
The portion looks ridiculous. I'm used to big portions, from the unit, but not ones I've voluntarily shoved in front of myself. The chicken glistens greyly, and the broccoli is giving off a smell like stale farts. I never liked broccoli anyway. I cut everything up into little bits and decide I'll tackle it like taking a pill. I manage to get down half of it that way, barely chewing.
This shouldn't be a problem. I've done this so many times before.
I get some salt and add a tiny bit and put away another third. There's now one potato, one mushy floret of broccoli and a chunk of chicken on my plate.
I can do this.
I pick up my fork. Get a piece of chicken to my mouth. Put the fork back down again. The smell of it is making me heave.
I can't do this.
What now?
I start thinking about abortions and birth defects and what Mary said. I could leave the rest, but I haven't had enough, according to my numbers. I think about crying, but what good did that ever do anyone, to paraphrase Dad?
Then there's a tap at the door.
Saved by the knock. Probably Laurel again. She's going to be in so much trouble.
I shove the plate away.
I'm already saying, 'Seriously?' as I open the door.
But it isn't Laurel standing there. It's a boy I've never seen before in my life.
He looks a bit awkward and I realise that 'seriously' came out pretty loud.
'Sorry to bother you. I've just moved in next door and I thought I'd introduce myself.'
I stare at him. People do not knock on doors and introduce themselves around here. I glance over his shoulder down the deserted hallway and begin to close the door, but I don't quite shut it.
'And also ask if I can borrow a bit of milk? I tried the other neighbours, but, ah … ' He raises wide hands palm out. He must be over six foot, broad-shouldered but skinny, with round geeky glasses.
Does he think I'm going to invite him in or something? I give him my best stare.
'I'm Robin,' he says, and holds out his hand like he's planning to shake mine, eyes up the size of the gap I'm peering through, then wipes his hand on his trousers instead.
I think about slamming the door or telling him to get lost, but I suddenly realise he must be the flower owner and, for some stupid reason, it makes me hesitate.
'Hedda,' I say back, then make my face frosty, so he doesn't come out with some comment about what an 'unusual' name I have, when really we'd both be thinking the word is more like 'stupid'.
To his credit, he doesn't blink.
'I just need a cup of tea. Can't drink it black,' he says, and there's an edge in his voice you only get when you're on your own and desperate for someone to talk to. He doesn't look like the usual type you get round here.
'Have you got a cup?' I say.
'Ummm,' he says.
We look at each other.
'I'll go and get one,' he says.
I shut the door and put the chain on, then go to the fridge, and a moment later he's back. I peer at him through the gap in the door and realise two things. First, he's much younger than I thought – at a guess I'd put him at nineteen maybe. Second, I don't think his cup is going to fit through the gap. He sees me looking and follows my train of thought.