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7

The Letter

Cleaning the kitchen in a kind of trance, entirely absorbed in the act of ordering and restoring, I took a deep satisfaction in matching up the plates, cups and pans, and in vanishing each set behind cupboard doors and drawer fronts. I’d just finished mopping the floor and was pouring grey water into the toilet bowl when there was a knock on the front door.

Danni Grayson from the flat upstairs stood in the doorway, her arms full of post, all of it for me and for Imogen, and all of it delivered to her flat by mistake at various times over the last three weeks. Her expression said they have one job and for God’s sake, and mine said sorry and tell me about it. The problem had been going on for so long that we didn’t need to discuss it.

I took the pile through to the kitchen and began to sort it. Junk mail, red bill, junk mail, junk mail, red bill, red bill, junk mail, bank statement, red bill, red bill, red bill. And then—

‘Oh.’

The word came involuntarily, as my chest squeezed itself tight in surprise.