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freeze a dead body or two.
    To say the room is unrecognisable is the understatement of the year. Everywhere my eyes rest gives up a new horror, from the blistered, peeling paintwork to the twisted remains of the fridge. And everything is a damp, dull brown.
    A glint of light in the corner catches my eye, and I step carefully over the debris to reach it. It is the remains of a glass mosaic candleholder, made from blue and green squares, a gift from my mother. Now it is covered in soot like everything else, and the glass has been bent out of shape by the heat.
    Funny, I’ve never really admired the thing before. It was just there – just another ornament. I don’t think I’ve ever even bothered to put a candle in it. But suddenly, vividly, I remember how the sun used to flood in through the window and cause the mosaic glass to fling beautiful coloured patterns across the wall.
    The thought makes me unbearably sad.
    I stumble backwards, catching my bare ankle on a sharp piece of wood sticking out from the remains of my kitchen table. I cry out as it tears through the thin skin. Pain shoots up my leg. As if this fire hasn’t done enough damage, now the remains of it are attacking me.
    ‘Bastard thing!’ somebody shrieks. (I think it might be me.)
    I kick the table hard, sending black soot flying across the room. A sound throbs in my head like a heartbeat, pounding against my ears, and it drowns out the noises I make as I crash about the room, venting a sudden fit of anger. I kick at the nearest kitchen cupboard, reducing it to splinters and ashes. I lash out at the twisted frame of the microwave, and it falls to the floor with a satisfying crash.
    I’m whirling around the room now, sweating and out of control. The release feels good in a weird, unhealthy way, and I attack whatever I can reach, wanting to destroy it all. Perhaps I need to put my own stamp on it again, take back the power from the fire. My whirling takes me out of the kitchen and into the lounge, where I attack the remains of my sofa, my fists thumping uselessly at the waterlogged fabric.
    My fury doesn’t last very long. Most of the furniture is sodden and heavy with water. The soot I dislodge flies up into my face and sticks to my tears. I breathe it in and it sticks in my throat, making me cough.
    Eventually I wear myself out.
    Stop in middle of the room, panting loudly.
    Become aware of somebody standing dead still in the doorway, watching me impassively.
    Joshua.
    Terrific.
    ‘Oh, hi!’ I say, as if thrashing around a disaster zone on a Tuesday afternoon in June is totally normal behaviour.
    Joshua stares at me suspiciously out of those impossibly deep brown eyes. ‘I heard noises. I thought someone had broken in.’
    ‘Like someone would,’ I answer, sarcastically. ‘It’s not as if there’s anything to steal.’
    ‘Kids, I mean,’ Joshua says, smoothing his hair back with both hands, a habit I’d noticed on our date last night. ‘What are you doing?’
    ‘Oh, you know. Just surveying the damage. Seeing if there’s anything salvageable before the decorators move in.’ As you might have guessed, I have kept the small matter of my lack of insurance secret.
    Joshua nods sagely. ‘Very wise,’ he says, and then he stuns me by asking me out to dinner again.
    I hear myself saying yes before my brain has had a chance to think it through properly. I guess it’s just that there haven’t been so many offers in the last few years that I feel comfortable turning down someone who is, if a little odd, at least very eligible. When you’re a single mum – especially when you’re a single mum who’s a bit past it, as Lipsy likes to tell me – men tend to be thin on the ground. The only ones who notice you even exist are either harassed single dads looking for some help with the kids or slightly desperate bachelors on the lookout for a ready-made family. Only, they’re not so keen on the ready-made variety that comes with a stroppy