‘What’s that?’ Amy asked, her voice utterly flat.
‘It’s a cheque. From Justin,’ Phyllis replied. ‘The proceeds of the sale of the shoes. I don’t necessarily approve of my son’s action, but I know one thing: he is not a thief.’
Amy took the envelope. She didn’t know what else to do. But just as her mouth was about to form the heartfelt ‘Oh, yes he is,’ a piercing, deafening noise made both women jump.
‘The fire alarm!’ Phyllis shouted, as they covered their ears. ‘It’s probably another false alarm, but you can never be too careful. Quick, can you smell smoke?’
Amy couldn’t, but she followed the older lady to the door. The fire alarm had gone off twice in the last month and both times had been false alarms. Amy knew for a fact that the Turkish couple in the apartment opposite were fond of smoking shisha.
‘Oh, no! Mrs Tompkiss!’ Phyllis exclaimed.
‘Be careful!’ Amy shouted above the din, as the older woman hurried downstairs to find Mrs Tompkiss, her precious cat. There were still no signs of smoke or flames. People were beginning to emerge onto the staircase above and below, and clatter downstairs to the fire assembly point.
But not Amy. Seizing her chance, she glanced from side to side and slipped back into the now empty flat, sitting down in front of Justin’s home computer. Loud voices told her that the landing was busy, and she shook all over as she waited for the machine to boot up. It seemed to take for ever – Phyllis could return at any moment – but at last it sprang into life and Amy began to navigate her way to Justin’s eBay account. She was dizzy with anticipation: two more minutes, and she’d have all of the buyers’ details …
Only he had changed his password. Amy typed in the familiar ‘moshpit’ password four times before forcing herself to accept the obvious – he’d won.
Stunned, Amy sat back, wanting to wail with anguish. So close! How was she going to get the information now? Justin sure as heck wasn’t going to email the details to her, however nicely she asked. She knew he wouldn’t back down. He was such a stickler for seeing a job through, doing things thoroughly …
Aha – light-bulb moment! At once, Amy had her solution. Justin was such a stickler, wasn’t he? He was bound to have done proper printed address labels on his computer, wasn’t he? There was no way he would do anything as time-consuming as writing on the parcels with a pen if there was a technological and cunning way of doing it! Excitedly, and ignoring the panicked voices outside, Amy opened Justin’s Word documents.
There it was. A file carefully titled ‘Shoe Labels’.
Quickly, Amy printed it off, shut down the computer and was about to run downstairs when she remembered the letter.
The night before, unable to sleep, she had taken out her writing pad and poured everything out in a letter: all about Sergei, and why she hadn’t told Justin about their meetings. She hadn’t been sure whether she would ever let Justin read it, as it ended up tear-stained and far, far too emotional, but now, with all her senses jangling, she thought, oh, what the heck, and laid it down beside the computer for Justin to read – or not – when he eventually came home.
She made it downstairs to the fire assembly point just a minute before Phyllis, who arrived clutching Mrs Tompkiss, relief spread all over her face. Neighbours were milling around chatting. Since the fire alarm had started malfunctioning, the neighbours had actually got round to knowing each other by name rather than just flat number.
‘Looked everywhere for her. Finally found her hiding in the laundry basket.’ Phyllis beamed at Amy, before obviously remembering that they were no longer supposed to be close, and sidling awkwardly off to talk to someone else.
It cut Amy to the core.
A moment later, Jesminder crept up and stood by Amy’s side.
‘My goodness, someone really needs to see to that smoke alarm. Anyone could wander in off the street and set it off, oh, say, by waving a lighter underneath it.’ Jesminder winked.
‘Thanks, Jes. I owe you. Did you have any troubles?’ Amy hissed out of the corner of her mouth.
‘None at all. It was scarily easy – I could get used to the criminal life,’ came the euphoric reply. ‘Success?’
Amy frowned. ‘Kind of. I think I’ve got all the addresses, but no phone numbers, unfortunately.’
‘Worth doing, though?’
‘Definitely!’
They basked in a momentary enjoyment of an illicit job well done before Amy sighed and turned to her friend. ‘Well, guess we’d better start loading our cars with all my surviving worldly goods. Thanks again for letting me use your spare room.’
Jesminder nodded and gave her a hug, and Amy walked sadly over to Phyllis, to seek her permission to return, briefly, to clear her things out of the apartment.
Two hours later, after the girls had done lugging all Amy’s stuff out of their cars and into Jesminder’s tiny South London basement flat, the thrill of their successful mission had thoroughly worn off. Instead Amy felt the beginnings of a numbing blankness. It had actually happened – Justin had kicked her out. And Phyllis had helped. Oh, Phyllis’s sadness over the situation had been as plain as day, but it had been obvious where her loyalties lay.
‘Poor Phyllis,’ Amy sighed as at last she sank down on the carpet in front of Jesminder’s gas fire. ‘This must be awful for her.’
‘Pardon?’ Jesminder poked her head round the kitchen door. ‘Poor Phyllis?’
Amy nodded. ‘Yes, it can’t be nice for her, thinking her son’s girlfriend is a cheap shagabout, can it?’
‘She knows you’re not that!’ exclaimed Jesminder. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Does she, though?’ Amy pressed. ‘Why shouldn’t she believe her own son? He obviously believes I’m a cheap shagabout, doesn’t he?’
‘Stop it!’ Jesminder made a show of covering her ears. ‘Stop using that word! And you’re not! In fact, you deserve a medal for feeling sorry for anyone other than yourself right now. Glass of wine? Beer?’
Amy gazed at the photo of Jes with her beaming parents on graduation day. She was very, very tired. ‘Please may I just have a great big mug of tea?’
‘Of course you can, sweetheart. Then you and I must begin plotting.’ Jesminder ducked back into the kitchen and Amy heard the splishing sound of the kettle being filled. ‘Stick some music on, why don’t you?’
‘Sure.’ Amy crawled on all fours over to Jesminder’s CD collection – with its Punjabi MCs, Rishi Rich and, horror of horrors, Justin Timberlake – which was housed in an unsteady wicker tower beside her stereo and portable TV in the corner of the room. ‘Got any new stuff from the festival? I could do with something cheerful.’
‘’Fraid not. I downloaded all the festival stuff last night. Put on Justin Timberlake, there’s a pal.’
‘Must I?’ Amy whined. ‘I’ve had about all I can take of Justins for today.’
‘Ah – sorry. You choose, then. Want a biscuit?’
‘No, thanks. Actually, Jes, do you mind if we don’t listen to anything?’
‘Sure.’
Amy sat back and closed her eyes. She felt too flat for tears – that would have involved dramatic emotion and she’d had enough of that for one day. But nor did she want to go to bed. She knew with certainty that sleep would be in short supply. Her brain was repeatedly turning over the events of the day.
Where was Justin? He could even be in the apartment right now … reading my letter … reaching for the