By the time she had emptied the fridge (out-of-date medicine, creams and condoms straight into a garbage bag, along with all the condiments and all but one box or bottle of everything else), it was clear the fridge was not getting any cooler. She took out her phone, off since she’d been woken in the night by obscene messages from men she didn’t know, turned it on, bit her lip while the banked-up messages buzzed onto the device. She deleted them all unread and then texted Nic: Is your fridge broken?

While she waited for a reply, she sprayed the inside of the fridge with disinfectant, wiped it down, sprayed and wiped again, then a final time with hot water.

There’s a fridge in the living room

Okay, Lena wrote. But does the one in the kitchen work?

Not for years

Bloody hell. Lena stepped over the piles of who-the-fuck-knew-what to get to the living room and felt new panic rising. What was all this? Just fabric and boxes and, and, and, what? Finally she made it out: snuggled in between an armchair and a stack of video tapes, and bearing the weight of what looked like five or six clumsily folded blankets, was a tiny white fridge, smaller than the bar fridge in her room at uni. She picked her way over and wrenched it open. Two small cans of off-brand cola, two bottles of Fanta, a bottle of spring water, one of orange juice and a small carton of chocolate milk. All of it blissfully chilled.

Lena drank the water and then a cola, crouched right there in front of the open door. The fizz burnt her throat and made her eyes tear up but the cold was like a miracle. Soon the sugar and caffeine would hit and might just get her through another hour of this hell. And then?

Her phone buzzed.

Josh.

The cola almost came right back up. Not that it would matter. Cola spew would blend right in to this filthy rag of a carpet.

Do u hate me?

Three seconds of her heart hammering and then:

Wouldnt blame u

Know I don’t deserve it but would luv to talk

She typed go to hell, deleted it, forwarded his messages to Annie and Lou instead. She waited for their counsel, crouched in front of the little fridge with its children’s party mix of drinks.

Annie and Lou were of one mind: fuck him and the horse he rode in on. Delete the messages, delete his contact details, block his number.

She would. Later. Right now, she’d noticed there was a path, of sorts, running from where she crouched to the armchair in front of the TV. Shit, Nic, could you be more of a stereotype?