Back at Rupert’s, I tug the sheaf of envelopes out of my bag and dump them on the pile that has grown again on the kitchen counter, reaching into the fridge for a cold bottle of wine. As I cross the kitchen for a clean glass, the pile snags my attention and I give a small smile. Who could have known that when I first saw that bundle of post, on the day of my interview, that a few short months later my own mail would soon be added to it. A bubble of happiness bursts in my chest as I reach out for the pile with the aim of sorting it all out, but my hand catches the edge and the envelopes scatter over the floor.

‘Shit.’ I stoop down, the blood rushing to my head as I collect them up and move to the table, bringing my wine with me. I sift them into two piles – junk and the ones with Rupert’s name on. Most of my post is still going to the flat, so I pause when I come to an envelope with no postmark, just my name written in Sharpie across the front. I hesitate for just a moment, before sliding my finger under the flap and pulling out a single sheet of white paper. There is one word written in block capitals.

BITCH.

I drop the paper to the floor with a gasp, as if it is on fire, before I bend to pick it up, laying it gingerly on the table. The block writing is thick and dark, and I imagine I can smell the hate oozing from the page. Who could have sent it? I see Mags in my mind’s eye shoving envelopes into my bag, but I can’t recall whether this one was in there, or whether it was in the pile already stacked in the kitchen. I have no idea who sent it, or whether it was sent to me here, or to the flat.