Meagan stared at the money then back at Jemima.

‘Cash, cooking? This ain’t the Seventies. If you tweet a pizza emoji to Domingo’s they’ll be round in twenty minutes with a nice hot meat feast,’ she said pulling out her phone.

‘Fine,’ Jemima moaned. ‘She needs something. All I’ve got in that fridge is a block of parmesan and some vaginal probiotics.’

‘You don’t want her thinking about her vagina. That’ll just remind her of Oscar,’ said Meagan.

‘Everything reminds her of Oscar.’

‘Maybe because he is a vagina,’ said Meagan coldly.

Jemima snorted as she went back to tidying Simi’s belongings. Meagan watched, bemused. Even though these weren’t her things, Jemima was still determined to find a place for everything because – everything had its place. It wasn’t personal. It was just Jem. Luckily for Meagan, Jemima’s love of her personal space would play nicely into her scheme to get Simi back to work and, specifically, auditioning for the IPC role she’d been waiting to discuss. She just had to play it very, very delicately. Meagan nudged Simi’s box of bongo drums with her foot.

‘Be fun having Simi’s drumming circle around,’ said Meagan as she leafed through an old copy of The Stage.

The record scratch in Jemima’s brain was almost audible.

‘Eh?’ said Jemima.

Meagan tapped out a paradiddle on one of the bongos and grinned at Jemima.

‘Tell you what would get her back on her feet and moving on – a date. The best way to get over a bloke is to get under another one, right,’ she said.

‘Then that’s sex. That’s not even a date!’ Jemima interrupted as she popped up from behind a pile of Simi’s things.

‘S’right. Cut to the chase.’ Meagan beamed.

She knew this was a bad idea. Suggesting it was merely a stepping stone en route to her long con. If she’d been alone she’d have let out a cartoon evil laugh.

‘I mean, I want Simi to find her own place eventually but that is a terrible suggestion,’ said Jemima.

‘What’s a terrible suggestion?’ said Simi now trussed up in towels.

‘Nothing,’ said Jemima, darting a stony glare at Meagan.

‘Tell me,’ said Simi, hope flickering in her eyes.

Jemima disappeared behind the boxes.

‘Well,’ began Meagan, metaphorically cricking her fingers, ‘you know what they say is the best way to get over someone?’

‘Therapy?’ suggested Simi earnestly.

‘No, dummy. Getting under someone,’ said Meagan with a wink.

‘Terrible suggestion, terrible suggestion!’ Jemima moaned from her box fortress.

Simi looked at Meagan confused as though her brain were literally buffering.

‘But… I just…’

‘You need to get back on your feet and a date would be a great way to do it,’ said Meagan.

‘That’s an awful idea,’ said Simi.

‘Told you,’ came a muffled rebuff from behind the boxes.

‘I couldn’t ask someone out. What would I say? “Hi, I’m damaged goods. Want to spend an evening speculating on why my ex didn’t want children?”’ said Simi slumping into Jemima’s sofa.