I nearly jump a mile. It’s Ketterman. Right there, standing in front of the lifts, holding a bulging briefcase. For an instant I’m transfixed in horror. What’s he doing here?
“Someone told me you lived here.” His eyes glint through his spectacles. “I’ve bought number thirty-two as a pied-à-terre. We’ll be neighbors during the week.”
Please tell me this is not happening. He lives here?
“Er … welcome to the building!” I say, trying as hard as I can to sound like I mean it. The lift doors open and we both get in.
Number 32. That means he’s only two floors above me. I feel like my headmaster has moved in. Why did he have to choose this building?
The elevator rises in silence. I feel more and more uncomfortable. Should I attempt small talk? Some light, neighborly chitchat?
“I made some headway on that file you gave me,” I say at last.
“Good,” he says curtly, and nods.
So much for the small talk. I should just cut to the big stuff.
Am I going to become a partner tomorrow?
“Well … good night,” I say awkwardly as I leave the lift.
“Good night, Samantha.”
The lift doors close and I emit a silent scream. I cannot live in the same building as Ketterman. I’m going to have to move.
I’m about to put my key in the lock when the door to the opposite flat opens a crack.
“Samantha?”
As if I haven’t had enough this evening. It’s Mrs. Farley, my neighbor. She has silver hair and gold-rimmed spectacles and an insatiable interest in my life. But she is very kind and takes in parcels for me, so I try to tolerate her intrusiveness.
“Another delivery arrived for you, dear,” she says. “Dry cleaning this time. I’ll just fetch it for you.”
“Thanks,” I say gratefully, swinging my door open. A small pile of junk leaflets is sitting on the doormat and I sweep them aside, onto the bigger pile building up at the side of my hallway. I’m planning to recycle them when I get a moment. It’s on my list.
“You’re late home again.” Mrs. Farley is at my side, holding a pile of polythene-covered shirts. “You girls are so busy!” She clicks her tongue. “You haven’t been home before eleven this week!”
This is what I mean by an insatiable interest. She probably has all my details logged somewhere in a little book.
“Thanks very much.” I reach for my dry cleaning, but to my horror Mrs. Farley pushes past me into the flat, exclaiming, “I’ll carry it in for you!”
“Er … excuse the … er … mess,” I say as she squeezes past a pile of pictures propped against the wall. “I keep meaning to put those up.…”
I steer her hastily into the kitchen, away from the pile of take-away menus on the hall table. Then I wish I hadn’t. On the kitchen counter is a stack of old tins and packets, together with a note from my new cleaner, all in capitals:
DEAR SAMANTHA
1. ALL YOUR FOOD IS PAST ITS SELL-BY DATES. SHOULD I THROW AWAY?
2. DO YOU HAVE ANY CLEANING MATERIALS, E.G. BLEACH? COULD NOT FIND ANY.
3. ARE YOU COLLECTING CHINESE FOOD CARTONS FOR ANY REASON? DID NOT THROW THEM AWAY, JUST IN CASE.
YOUR CLEANER JOANNE
I can see Mrs. Farley reading the note. I can practically hear the clucking going on in her head. Last month she gave me a little lecture on did I have a slow cooker, because all you needed to do was put in your chicken and vegetables in the morning and it didn’t take five minutes to slice a carrot, did it?
I really wouldn’t know.
“So … thanks.” I hastily take the dry cleaning from Mrs. Farley and dump it on the hob, then usher her out to the door, aware of her swiveling, inquisitive eyes. “It’s really kind of you.”
“It’s no trouble! Not wishing to interfere, dear, but you know, you could wash your cotton blouses very well at home and save on all that money.”
I look at her blankly. If I did that I’d have to dry them. And iron them.
“And I did just happen to notice that one of them came back missing a button,” she adds. “The pink and white stripe.”
“Oh, right,” I say. “Well … that’s OK. I’ll send it back. They won’t charge.”
“You can pop a button on yourself, dear!” Mrs. Farley is shocked. “It won’t take you two minutes. You must have a spare button in your workbox?”
My what?
“I don’t have a workbox,” I explain as politely as I can. “I don’t really do sewing.”
“You can sew a simple button on, surely!” she exclaims.