My other trick is to distract myself with different thoughts and activities. So I get up, switch the radio on, take a shower, and get dressed. The thumping’s still there at the back of my head, but gradually, gradually, it’s fading away. As I go into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee, I can barely hear it anymore. A cautious relief floods over me, like that feeling you get when a painkiller finally gets rid of your headache. I can relax. I’m going to be all right.

On the way out I pause in the hall to check my appearance in the mirror (Top: River Island, Skirt: French Connection, Tights: Pretty Polly Velvets, Shoes: Ravel) and reach for my coat (Coat: House of Fraser sale). Just then the post plops through the door, and I go to pick it up. There’s a handwritten letter for Suze and a postcard from the Maldives. And for me, there are two ominous-looking window envelopes. One from VISA, one from Endwich Bank.

For a moment, my heart stands still. Why another letter from the bank? And VISA. What do they want? Can’t they just leave me alone?

Carefully I place Suze’s post on the ledge in the hall and shove my own two letters in my pocket, telling myself I’ll read them on the way to work. Once I get on the tube, I’ll open them both and I’ll read them, however unpleasant they may be.

Honestly. As I’m walking along the pavement, I promise my intention is to read the letters.

But then I turn into the next street—and there’s a skip outside someone’s house. A huge great yellow skip, already half full of stuff. Builders are coming in and out of the house, tossing old bits of wood and upholstery into the skip. Loads of rubbish, all jumbled up together.

And a little thought creeps into my mind.

My steps slow down as I approach the skip and I pause, staring intently at it as though I’m interested in the words printed on the side. I stand there, trying to appear casual, until the builders have gone back into the house and no one’s looking. Then, in one motion, I reach for the two letters, pull them out of my pocket, and drop them over the side, into the skip.

Gone.

As I’m standing there, a builder pushes past me with two sacks of broken plaster, and heaves them into the skip. And now they really are gone. Buried beneath a layer of plaster, unread. No one will ever find them.

Gone for good.

Quickly I turn away from the skip and begin to walk on again. Already my step’s lighter and I’m feeling buoyant.

Before long, I’m feeling completely purged of guilt. I mean, it’s not my fault if I never read the letters, is it? It’s not my fault if I never got them, is it? As I bound along toward the tube station I honestly feel as though neither of those letters ever existed.