‘That better?’ he asks, as I take a deep drag.
‘Yep.’
‘Good.’ He grins, obviously relieved to see I’m calmer. ‘Shall I give you some to take home with you? I don’t suppose you can afford such luxuries these days.’
Suddenly, a white flash of fury erupts in my chest, surprising even me.
‘I’ve had enough of this.’ I jump up, throwing my lit cigarette onto the floor and pulling on my jacket.
‘Don’t do that.’
‘Why not?’ I nod towards the cigarette end. I have no further use for it.’
‘I mean,’ Sam picks up the burning end and throws it into the ashtray, ‘don’t go home. Let’s sort things out properly.’
‘I don’t need to sort things out, thank you,’ I say. ‘Especially not with you. I’m not staying round here to be treated like some sort of bloody charity case. Do you see me wandering around outside Woollies, shaking a little tin and giving out stickers?’
‘No, but… I just thought…’
‘Trouble is,’ I stab a finger at his chest, you didn’t just think, did you? Otherwise you’d realise you’ve just made me feel about this big.’ hold my forefinger and thumb about half an inch apart.
‘I was trying to help,’ he protests as I open the front door and step outside into the early summer sunshine.
‘I don’t need your help.’
‘Then what, exactly, do you intend to do? Go home to your mother? You can’t afford to live in that flat without a job. You know that. The rent’s extortionate for one person as it is.’
‘Well, I didn’t exactly force Janice to move out, now did I?’
‘You didn’t exactly try very hard to find someone else to replace her, did you?’
‘Fuck off, Sam.’ I’m shouting now. ‘I don’t have to replace her if I don’t want to. I can do what I want.’
‘Oh, grow up,’ I hear him say just before I slam the door in his face. I open up the letterbox.
‘Grow up yourself,’ I shriek through it, then stomp off down the path, almost ending up in the privet hedge. When I get to the street I turn round. He’s standing at the window, an odd look—contempt, perhaps—on his face. ‘And don’t call me Simpson,’ I bellow at the top of my voice.
I steam down Hearnville Road in a foul temper. Me, grow up? Who the hell does he think he is? Just because he bestows that horrible game show host’s smile on every female who has the misfortune to cross his path, and gets away with murder. Well, it isn’t going to work on me. It just annoys me. And another thing that really blimming well bugs me, I tell myself, passing a couple of middle-aged men enjoying the sunshine on the Common, is that the minute the sun comes out, people all over the capital decide it’s OK to behave as though they’ve undergone some sort of dreadful taste lobotomy. Why do blokes who have short, hairy, sausagey legs think it’s perfectly OK to wear shorts at all hours of the day just because it’s gone above seventy?
I unlock my front door, still fuming. Who cares if I haven’t got a job? It just means I can spend the rest of the afternoon jamming down oversalted instant noodles and watching shit telly. And that’s exactly what I do.
A couple of hours later, I’m engrossed in some shallow fly-on-the-wall documentary when the phone shrills and, probably because I’m sick to the molars of my own company and am feeling restless and sort of squinchly after my row with Sam, I decide to answer the damn thing for a change, even though common sense tells me I should be avoiding all calls for the immediate future until Max gets it into his thick head that I don’t want anything more to do with him.
It isn’t Max. It’s George, calling to demand my immediate presence in the posh end of Islington.
‘Can’t,’ I mutter, glancing down at the grey jogging bottoms and ancient Wham! ‘Choose Life’ T-shirt I’m unashamedly slobbing about in. ‘Can’t leave the house until I find out whether the Harris family from Weston Super-Mare are going to miss their flight or not, I’m afraid. Mr Harris has got half an hour to get back to the airport with little Callum’s passport and if he doesn’t make it they’ll lose their holiday to Magaluf. A whole year’s savings down the drain. I’m on the edge of my seat here.’
‘Please?’ George sounds anxious. ‘It’s important.’
‘So’s the Harrises’ holiday to Majorca,’ I joke. ‘For them, anyway. They’ve never been able to afford to go abroad before.’
‘Pretty please?’ he wheedles. ‘With hundreds and thousands on top?’