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lifts, holding
     a bulging briefcase. For an instant Im transfixed in horror. Whats he doing here?
    Someone told me you lived here. His eyes glint through his spectacles. Ive bought number
     thirty-two as a pied-a-terre. Well be neighbors during the week.
    Please tell me this is not happening. He lives here? Er... welcome to the building! I say, trying as hard as I can to sound like I mean
     it.
    The lift doors open and we both get in. Number 32. That means hes only two floors above
     me. I feel like my headmaster has
    moved in. Why did he have to choose this building? The elevator rises in silence. I feel more and more uncomfortable. Should I
     attempt small
    talk? Some light, neighborly chitchat?
    I made some headway on that file you gave me, I say at last.
    Good, he says curtly, and nods.
    So much for the small talk. I should just cut to the big stuff.
    Am I going to become a partner tomorrow?
    Well... good night, I say awkwardly as I leave the lift.
    Good night, Samantha.
    The lift doors close and I emit a silent scream. I cannot live in the same building as
     Ketterman. Im going to have to move.
    Im about to put my key in the lock when the door to the opposite flat opens a crack.
     Samantha?
    As if I havent had enough this evening. Its Mrs. Farley, my neighbor. She has silver hair
     and gold-rimmed spectacles and an insatiable interest in my life. But she is very kind and
     takes in parcels for me, so I try to tolerate her intrusive-ness.
    Another delivery arrived for you, dear, she says. Dry cleaning this time. Ill just fetch
     it for you.
    Thanks, I say gratefully, swinging my door open. A small pile of junk leaflets is sitting
     on the doormat and I sweep them aside, onto the bigger pile building up at the side of my
     hallway. Im planning to recycle them when I get a moment. Its on my list.
    Youre late home again. Mrs. Farley is at my side, holding a pile of polythene-covered
     shirts. You girls are so busy! She clicks her tongue. You havent been home before eleven
     this week!
    This is what I mean by an insatiable interest. She probably has all my details logged
     somewhere in a little book.
    Thanks very much. I reach for my dry cleaning, but to my horror Mrs. Farley pushes past me
     into the flat, exclaiming, Ill carry it in for you!
    Er... excuse the... er... mess, I say as she squeezes past a pile of pictures propped
     against the wall. I keep meaning to put those up...
    I steer her hastily into the kitchen, away from the pile of take-away menus on the hall
     table. Then I wish I hadnt. On the kitchen counter is a stack of old tins and packets,
     together with a note from my new cleaner, all in capitals:
    DEAR SAMANTHA
    1. ALL YOUR FOOD IS PAST ITS SELL-BY DATES. SHOULD I THROW AWAY?
    2. DO YOU HAVE ANY CLEANING MATERIALS, E.G. BLEACH? COULD NOT FIND ANY.
    3. ARE YOU COLLECTING CHINESE FOOD CARTONS FOR ANY REASON? DID NOT THROW THEM AWAY, JUST
     IN CASE.
    YOUR CLEANER JOANNE
    I can see Mrs. Farley reading the note. I can practically hear the clucking going on in her
    head. Last month she gave me a little lecture on did I have a slow cooker, because all you
     needed to do was put in your chicken and vegetables in the morning and it didnt take five
     minutes to slice a carrot, did it?
    I really wouldnt know.
    So... thanks. I hastily take the dry cleaning from Mrs. Farley and dump it on the hob,
     then usher her out to the door, aware of her swiveling, inquisitive eyes. Its really kind
     of you.
    Its no trouble! Not wishing to interfere, dear, but you know, you could wash your cotton
     blouses very well at home and save on all that money.
    I look at her blankly. If I did that Id have to dry them. And iron them.
    And I did just happen to notice that one of them came back missing a button, she adds. The pink and
     white stripe.
    Oh, right, I say. Well... thats OK. Ill send it back. They wont charge.
    You can pop a button on yourself, dear! Mrs. Farley is shocked. It wont take you two