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snails and slugs to get to the front door. The curtains are drawn. Her finger hovers over the doorbell. She rests the tip of her finger on it and takes a deep breath.
    And then her phone goes off. It startles her. She snatches it out of her raincoat pocket. She takes a few steps back down the drive, putting some distance between her and the door, and treads on a snail accidentally. She checks the display. It’s her mum.
    Helen waits for the phone to stop ringing. She holds it in her hands, waiting for her mum to put down the receiver. She thinks about lighting a fag but decides against it. Once the phone stops ringing, she steps carefully back past the snails.
    This time the door opens before she can touch the bell.
    â€˜Are you Helen?’ says the man in the doorway, extending his hand towards her.
    She nods.
    â€˜I’m William,’ he says. ‘Or Will.’
    His hand is cold. She forces a smile. He doesn’t. His face is drawn and dark with stubble. She’s guessing he’s thirty but it’s pretty hard to tell. There’s this blankness to him, as if he’s more an idea than an actual person.
    Something is missing.
    William or Will shakes her hand for a long time, long enough for the coldness of it to go in through her fingers and start to make its way up her arm like tetanus.
    Then he turns and leads Helen inside.



If the phone rings again I’ll unplug it. I’ll throw it away.
    I’ve quit my job.
    I’ve quit my job by not going in.
    Wednesday morning, 10 a.m. The phone’s rung three times already today; the answerphone is at its message limit.
    One from my parents, from four days ago: ‘Hello, William, mum and dad here. Just a quick call to see if you’re okay. Give us a ring when you get this, love.’
    One from Will, two days ago: ‘Got back from Prague last night. It was bollocks. Anyway, give me a call. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
    The other forty-eight are from my boss.
    I’ve not told anyone yet, but I plan to work from home from now on, for myself. I’ve got the necessary‘start-up capital’ saved in the bank. My new job will involve sitting around watching TV and eating toast and not going to work any more. It will involve looking out of the window and daydreaming and avoiding people from work.
    Further than this, I don’t know.
    I have nothing planned.
    I lie in bed, not picking up the phone and imagining someone; a girl I’ve not yet met. This afternoon she’ll knock on my door. Her knock will be distinctive; sharp and very slightly brittle. Just hearing the knock I’ll know it’s her. I’ll smooth down my hair in the bathroom mirror. I’ll take my time over it, too, because she is patient and will wait on the doorstep for as long as it takes. (She will wait an hour if she has to.) Then I’ll invite her in and we’ll sit in the living room, talking about small quiet things for a while and drinking cups of tea. We’ll make jokes. We’ll understand each other immediately. We’ll understand things we previously didn’t even know existed. Then she’ll move in. This will all happen in the same afternoon. It will happen today. And nothing will be difficult between us, nothing will need to be arranged, because from now on there’ll be no supermarkets, bosses, gas or electricity bills ever again. Carpet warehouses, solicitors, tax return forms – such things won’t exist any more. Every boring and depressing part of our lives – even those crouched on its periphery, likethe dull brown buildings you see zip past on the bus – will be eradicated.
    She will be kind and quiet and sweet.
    She will fall in love with me, completely and suddenly.
    We will stay in bed all day with the curtains drawn and not get up, even if we really need to piss.

I arrange to meet Will at a bar in the city. A few years ago, we’d be out for a drink every