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"Good. Good," says Anoushka, in the distracted tone of someone who wouldn't have heard if you'd said they'd both been beheaded that morning. "Now, about this manuscript."

Lila pulls the coat hanger from the toilet bowl. The water level is still somewhere just under the seat. She peels the rubber gloves from her hands and leans back against the cabinet. She hears Truant still barking and wonders if she'll have to take the neighbors another bottle of wine. She has given away seven in the last three months, trying to stop them actively hating her.

"When are you going to have something to send me? You seemed very certain last month."

Lila blows out her cheeks. "I—I'm working on it." 

There is a short silence.

"Now, darling, I don't want to sound stern," Anoushka says, sounding stern, "you did astonishingly well with The Rebuild. And you had that lovely little uplift in sales on the back of Dan's terrible deeds. I suppose we should be grateful to him for that at least. But we do not want to lose visibility, do we? We do not want to be so late delivering that I might as well be launching a debut."

"I—It'll be with you very soon." 

"How soon?"

Lila gazes around the bathroom. "Six weeks?"

"Let's say three. Doesn't have to be perfect, darling. I just need an idea as to what you're doing. Is it still a guide to a Happy Single Life?"

"Uh...yes."

"Lots of tips on how to live well independently? Funny stories about dates? Some nice hot single-sex anecdotes?"

"Oh, yes. All of that."

"Can't wait. I'm already agog. I'll live vicariously through your adventures! Oh, for goodness' sake, Gracie, not the new wastepaper basket. I've got to go. I await your email! Much love to all!"

Lila ends the call and stares at the toilet bowl, willing the water to go down. As she sits, she hears Bill climbing the stairs. He pauses at the landing, and she can hear him steady himself as he makes to mount the next step. He and Mum lived in a 1950s bungalow ten minutes' walk away—sparsely furnished, full of light and clean lines—and he finds the many floors and clutter of this rickety house a daily challenge.

"Darling girl?"

"Yes?" Lila rearranges her face into something bright and cheery.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news but the neighbors have been round complaining about the dog again. And something disgusting appears to be seeping through the kitchen ceiling."

*  *  *

The emergency plumber had sucked his teeth, pulled up four floorboards, and apparently discovered the leak in the soil pipe. He had drained the cistern, informed her that she would need a whole new system—"Mind you, I can't imagine you want to hang on to that bathroom suite too much longer. I've got grandparents younger than that is"—drunk two cups of sweet tea, and charged her three hundred and eighty pounds. She had started calling it the Mercedes tax. Any tradesman would see the overpriced vintage sports car lurking on the drive and immediately add twenty-five percent to whatever invoice they had prepared.

"So that's what was causing the blockage?" Lila had said, tapping out the pin number of her credit card and trying not to calculate the damage that would do to this month's budget.

"Nah. Must be something else," he had said. "You can't use it, though, obviously. And all the bathroom plumbing will have to be reinstalled. You might want to replace some of those floorboards while you're at it. I can push my thumb through them."

Bill had put a calloused hand on her shoulder as she closed the door behind the man. "It'll all work out," he said, and squeezed lightly. This was what, for Bill, passed as deep emotional support. "I can help, you know."

"You don't have to," she said, turning to him brightly. "I'm fine. All good." He had sighed gently, then turned and headed stiffly to his room.