‘That’s the minister’s and the permanent secretary’s?’ the guy asked as he took the bags.

‘Yeah,’ Stella replied. ‘The minister’s rubbish is in the bag that’s tied. The one that’s taped up is the permanent secretary’s.’

He nodded and handed her some notes. She took them and stuffed them in a pocket, relieved to have the security of having some cash, but at the same time with a faint remorse deep in her belly. There was no question that she would be sacked if anyone were to find out. This was, without doubt, the easiest job she had attempted, and she shuddered at the thought of going down to the social security office to sign herself on as unemployed, knowing that she’d have to accept whatever lousy job they offered her once her benefits had run out.

The guy got in his car without a word, and Stella walked out of the car park and down towards Sæbraut, undecided whether to spend some of the cash on a bus home or to use it all to get something 109decent to eat. Most of all she longed to go up to Laugavegur and use every penny to drink beer in Dillon until DJ Andrea started to play. Then Andrea would buy her more beer; if she could drink beer all evening she wouldn’t need to eat. But her plans hadn’t gone further than that when her phone rang; it was Gréta’s number on the screen. She seemed to be the only person who called these days, now that Stella’s closest friends were spoken for and had lost all interest in the world outside their relationships.

‘She wants to meet for a drink! This evening, right after my broadcast!’ a flustered Gréta said. ‘And I don’t know what to suggest. Where do young, fashionable types who know what’s in right now want to go?’

Stella grimaced at the image Gréta seemed to have of her. She didn’t feel remotely fashionable or in as she trudged through the slush with two thousand krónur in her pocket that she had got for selling rubbish. But Gréta had never seen her at home in her little bedsit with mould on the walls and a bathroom she shared with four other people.

‘I’m walking past your block right now,’ Stella said. ‘How about I come up and we can talk this over?’

In her mind she could see the glow of the little glass-fronted fridge in Gréta’s kitchen, full of beer and champagne.

‘Yes, please!’ Gréta said. ‘I’m getting myself ready for tonight’s news and just popped home to change. But come on up. I’m so nervous about this date or whatever it is. Or maybe she swiped by mistake. She might be one of those people who can’t tell left from right…’

Stella ended the call without saying anything. It wasn’t good for Gréta to dig herself deep into desperation. In the lobby Stella nudged the up button. Hopefully Gréta would have a snack of some kind to offer her, like last time. Maybe some of those Greek olives that she ordered for herself specially. 110