LITMIR.BIZ

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boyfriend!’

      ‘No!’ said Laura. ‘Oh damn. How do you know?’

      ‘Because I effing saw him, didn’t I?’ Paddy said bitterly. ‘I was walking down the stairs today, really slowly, just in case she came out of the flat.’

      He paused, and looked into his wine glass, shaking his head as if wondering at the cruelty of the world.

      ‘So?’ said Laura. ‘Then what happened? Did she come out of the flat?’

      ‘Yes, oh yes,’ said Paddy. ‘Ha. She came out of the flat all right.’

      ‘Yes?’ said Laura. ‘And?’

      ‘With some bloke. Who she snogged for about five minutes outside. I walked past. They didn’t even say hello,’ he finished sadly, as if it was the breach of manners that really upset him about the whole thing.

      ‘Oh,’ said Laura. ‘Sorry, man.’

      ‘No sweat,’ said Paddy. He raised his glass. ‘Onwards and upwards, yes?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Laura, clinking his glass. ‘Onwards and upwards.’

      The next day, Laura got up at eight thirty. She knew what she was going to do. She showered and got dressed, putting on jeans and a strappy vest top, and smoothed her thick shiny hair back into a plait. In the kitchen, she made herself a cup of hot water with a slice of lemon and then went to the cupboard and pulled out a big cardboard box, which she stared at for a while. She went back to her room, carrying both. It was starting to look quite bare, she’d thrown so much away, and it was tidy and fresh now Mr Kowolczyk had been.

      Laura took a sip of her drink, and squared her shoulders. Then she opened her chest of drawers, and from it pulled a bundle of letters from Adam – her Romantic Poets university boyfriend – a series of cards from Josh, and the tiny pathetic scraps of memories she had from Dan. A photo of him. His expired work security pass. The bill from their weekend away in the Cotswolds (which she had had to pay for). A condom packet – god, how pathetic. Yet symbolic, she thought wryly as she chucked it in the bin. A couple of cards swearing undying love and promises of disgusting things he wanted to do to her. A bookmark – why, she had no idea. All of these went in the box. Then, with a heavy heart, she turned to her video collection, stacked up on the bookcase by her ancient video recorder. Laura was the one person who still scoured HMV for videos, scurrying home at the dead of night with a fresh cull of films Paddy would simply refuse to watch.

      In went her beloved Doris Day Collection. In went My Fair Lady, The Way We Were, Pride and Prejudice (TV boxed set), Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Gone with the Wind and Brief Encounter. She lingered over When Harry Met Sally – surely that was a comedy primarily, a fine piece of film-making, winner of an (she squinted at the case) Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay – but she was firm, and it went in the box, to be followed by Moonstruck, The Truth About Cats and Dogs, What Women Want and Four Weddings and a Funeral. Finally, with the heaviest of hearts, in went The Sound of Music, her own personal favourite. Yes, the songs were great, but as far as Laura was concerned, it was all about the Captain and Julie Andrews. The misunderstandings! The harsh words, the cross-purposes! The dance in the moonlight on the terrace! The – she stopped herself, and with her left hand prised the tape out of the frenzied grip of her right hand, and threw it almost viciously in the box. Gone.

      She moved over to the bookshelf. Laura gulped. This was harder than she realised. She thought of Mrs Danvers again, and hardened herself. Firm. Strong. Away with childish things. She put Rebecca on the bed, in case she needed to consult it. But in went all her Nancy Mitford books. In went all her Mills & Boons. She hesitated over her Jane Austen collection. Surely that was proper English literature, she shouldn’t be throwing it away! But no, the Mrs Danvers in her spoke again. You have never read them for academic enjoyment, Laura Foster, she said. You read them because they make you swoon and sigh and they have striding men with breeches in them. In they go.

      Finally, she reached the top shelf of her bookcase. With a shaking, heavy hand she picked up her Georgette Heyer collection. She knew it had to be done, but by god it hurt. Tears came into her eyes. One by one, she dropped each book in, watched as they slammed onto each other, the pale colours of the old paperback covers gleaming up out of the box at her. It was torture.

      But no. They were wrong, and they had to go. And the box was full. Slowly, Laura taped it up, and carried it out into the hall, down the stairs. Outside, in the fresh sunshine, she squinted up at the sky as she staggered like a drunk person down the path to where the wheelie bins were kept. She balanced the box on top of one, and was debating whether to open the bin and throw everything in or whether to just give the box to Paddy for safekeeping when a voice said,

      ‘Hello, Laura! How are you doing today, then?’

      ‘Hello, Mr Kenzo,’ Laura said. ‘I’m fine. Much better than the other day, you know.’

      ‘I’m glad, I’m glad,’ said Mr Kenzo, who was carrying a balsa-wood box of fruit. He reached in, handed her something. ‘Have a peach, my dear.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Laura, and bit into it. The rasp of the skin caught on the roof of her mouth, and she pressed her tongue up to the flesh and felt the sweet, musky juice flood down her throat. ‘Mm,’ she said. ‘My goodness! That’s delicious!’

      ‘You look well today,’ said Mr Kenzo, considering her. ‘Hair nice. New skirt? Much better than on Saturday. My dear, you looked – my gahd. Like a dead, drowned cat. Old.’

      ‘Er,’ said Laura, taking another bite, not sure how to respond. ‘Thanks?’

      ‘Let me help,’ said Mr Kenzo, and before Laura could protest he had gripped the box firmly under his arm, lifted up the bin, and tipped the contents into its black mouth.

      Laura gazed helplessly as videos, books, letters, all tumbled out of the box one after the other, disappearing into the dark. She’d never actually thrown a book away before, and she normally took her conked-out videotapes to the plastic recycling bin. It felt like sacrilege. ‘Oh,’ she said.

      ‘Mistake?’ said Mr Kenzo. ‘Oh dear. Were you – that was rubbish, wasn’t it? You did want to throw it away? Yes?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Laura, finishing the peach and slinging the peach stone in afterwards. She shut the bin lid and licked her fingers. ‘Yes, I did. Thanks, Mr Kenzo. See you later.’

      And she turned and walked up the path and up the stairs back to the flat. Another thing to check off the list. She was doing well. It was like having a New Year’s resolution, she thought. I will get over Dan and I will sort out my life. Also, I will go to the gym and have freshly squeezed fruit juices every morning before work. Well, little by little.

      The phone was ringing as she came back into the flat, and though she’d been avoiding the phone she instinctively picked it up. It was Jo.

      ‘Hi, babe,’ she said.

      ‘Er, hi,’ Laura answered uncertainly.

      ‘Look. I know it’s none of my business. But Paddy just rang me. He told me what happened.’

      Her voice was echoing, it reverberated down the line.

      ‘Oh,’ said Laura. ‘Right.’ She twisted the phone cord around her finger and sat down on the chair by the hall table. ‘Go on then,’ she said, not really knowing what to say, not wanting to sound rude, but not wanting to get into it. She really couldn’t cope with Jo if she was going to be sanctimonious and say, ‘I told you so.’

      ‘Well…’ Jo coughed. ‘I just wanted to say hi.’

      ‘Thanks,’ Laura said, fidgeting, feeling like a five-year-old.

      There was a pause, then Jo said in a rush, ‘Look. It’s none of my business. I’m not going to judge. You know what I think about it all. But I’ve been a really bad friend to you lately. And

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