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talk my way out of this. It had started. It was really happening. And I had no one to blame but myself.
     

Chapter Six
     
    Hunger drove me downstairs eventually. There was nothing in the huge pristine kitchen except for a newspaper folded up on top of the central island.
     
    I took a look. It was a copy of Loot . Very deliberately folded open to the flat-hunting page. God. I picked it up gingerly. I thought ruefully about Carena’s parents’ house. They had a guest floor. Of course she didn’t live there any more - she had a lovely apartment in South Ken - and the whole place was empty half the time. They wouldn’t have minded . . . of course I couldn’t. My friend had stabbed me right through. I couldn’t forgive for real estate. I didn’t even know if she would want me to. I tried not to think of her tearing around town. In my head I had horrible images of them, shrieking with laughter and kissing in exotic locations. Whilst I had . . . Loot .
     
    Rooms to rent. All looking for ‘friendly non-smokers’. I didn’t see any ads desiring someone ‘quite grumpy in the mornings, very occasional social smoker’.
     
    All the ads asked for six hundred quid a month, and for me to be ‘tidy’. But I didn’t know if I had six hundred quid. Oh God. My blood ran cold. My allowance. I’d never known life without an allowance. There was an envelope next to the paper. I picked it up. Inside was a cheque for a thousand pounds, signed by Gail. ‘To get you started,’ it said.
     
    What would Daddy want me to do?
     
    I knew, of course. Find a flat, do a good job, make a good show, then in six months’ time I could come back and claim my inheritance. He’d have been delighted. I could do it. Of course I could do it, I wasn’t stupid, and Gail and Leonard and everyone would be really impressed with me, and I’d be on my way to becoming the new Annie Leibovitz, and it’d be great. Wouldn’t it, Dad? Maybe I could show them all, stop living my life as some expensive victim.
     
    With hope jumping in my heart for the first time in weeks, I picked up the phone.
     
     
     
    Oh God, but flat hunting is hell on a stick. Who thought it was a good idea to go and audition for a group of weird horrible strangers who keep a collection of their bogies on the bathroom mirror but somehow want you to prove to them that you’re good enough to sleep in their airing cupboard, and by the way, would you mind doing all the cleaning in the nuddie?
     
    That September Tuesday, filled with optimistic zeal, I’d started to call the numbers in the paper. I started with nice places I already knew - Notting Hill, Chelsea, Primrose Hill. Everything had gone.
     
    The next day I tried again, but no luck. And the day after.
     
    ‘How are you doing?’ Gail asked when she saw me. She looked nervous, in case, I suppose, I bawled her out for ruining my life. She didn’t realise that I was trying to be the new Sophie; stoic and upbeat and calm. Even though I had just been asked by a chap on the phone if I minded cats. I’d said no, until he explained he had fourteen cats.
     
    ‘ Fine! ’ I said, stoically.
     
    ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I know it’s difficult. When I first left home I lived with a fishmonger . . .’
     
    I knew she was trying to be kind, but I couldn’t listen to her story. At least she’d found a place to stay - she hadn’t been thrown out by the person who was meant to be looking after her. She realised I wasn’t really listening, because she changed track.
     
    ‘Um,’ she said, ‘don’t be alarmed, but there’ll be men around the place over the next few days . . . just doing valuations. ’
     
    ‘You’re selling up?’ I said in a panic.
     
    ‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘I just need to get everything organised for the insurance. There’s a lot of paperwork, Sophie. I’ve tried to spare you most of it. Look, there’s no good way of saying this, but . . . you can’t take anything off the