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OK?’
    Having jumped away from the window, into the corner by the mirror, I glance sideways at my reflection. ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I reply, in a strangled voice. Oh. My. God. So this is what my neighbour just saw. Boobs, streaky mascara, wet hair, a cream-bleach moustache and naked thighs. Naked heavy thighs.
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Absolutely,’ I reply firmly, edging forward to peer round the corner like a sniper. I glance back across the street. ‘Him’ is still at the window. No doubt frozen with shock. I throw myself to the ground in an army dive.
    ‘Agggh.’
    ‘Perhaps this isn’t a good time . . .’
    ‘No, now’s a good time,’ I pant, inching forward on my elbows as if I’m on an assault course. I wince as the sisal matting gives my nipples a nasty case of carpet burn. ‘In fact . . .’ Reaching the coat rack I stand upright, grabbing a jacket from a hook. I wrap it round myself protectively. ‘Why don’t you come along and take a look at the room, see if you like it? See if you like me.’ I laugh nervously.
    ‘When?’
    ‘Erm, next week?’ I’m playing for time. And sole usage of the Le Creuset pans.
    ‘What about tomorrow?’
    ‘Tomorrow?’ I squeak.
    ‘Sorry, I forgot, it’s Saturday night. You’ve probably made plans.’
    ‘Um . . . well, actually . . .’ My voice trails off as I remember the truth. I have no plans. I’m single. I’m staying in alone. On a Saturday night.
    ‘Sorry, am I being your typical pushy American?’ His voice interrupts my awkwardness.
    ‘Yes, I mean no, no . . . not at all,’ I’m babbling. For Godsake, don’t be such an idiot, Heather, think of your credit-card bills. Think of your mortgage. Think of the fact that you’ve been advertising your room for weeks and this is the first reply you’ve had. ‘Tomorrow’s fine,’ I say quickly.
    ‘Awesome.’
    ‘Um . . . yep . . . awesome,’ I repeat. ‘Awesome’ is another word that can only be used by those with an American accent.
    There’s a pause.
    ‘I’ll need your address.’
    ‘Oh, yes, my address . . . of course.’ I proceed to gabble it so quickly that he has to ask me to repeat it twice.
    ‘Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow. Around seven?’
    ‘Great, see you then.’
    I replace the handset and lean against the wall. Reeling at the unexpected speed of events, I take a couple of deep breaths. Water from my hair trickles down my back and although it’s a balmy seventy degrees in the hallway, I shiver. Sticking my hands in my pockets to pull my jacket round me I feel my fingers brush against something. Soft yet scratchy. Puzzled, I pull it out. It’s that stupid lucky heather. How did that get there?
    Walking to the bin I keep near the front door for junk mail, I’m about to toss it in when I notice a small package on my doormat. One of those freebies you get in the post. Only this time it isn’t some hideously flavoured new Cup-a-soup, or a trial bar of soap: it’s a packet of razor blades. Well, would you believe it? I pick it up. Now I won’t have to go out tomorrow looking half-woman, half-beast.
    Chuffed, I hurry back into the bathroom and reach for my razor to swap the blade for a new one. Which is when I see that I’m still holding the sprig of heather. For some reason, I can’t get rid of it. Maybe it really is magical. Magical? I smile ironically. Heather Hamilton, what on earth’s got into you? Of course it’s not magical, it’s just a plant. Or is it a flower?
    Twirling it between finger and thumb I gaze at the delicate white sprigs. Superstitious nonsense or not, it’s actually rather pretty. It seems a shame to throw it away. Filling the top of a deodorant can with water I place the lucky heather in its makeshift vase and pop it on the windowsill. For now, anyway.

Chapter Six
     
    A long the banks of the River Avon a small group of art students are huddled round wooden easels. Before them rolls the Shropshire countryside, the layers of