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with a towel wound round her hair. As David stared at her she looked like the newly born Aphrodite, assuming that the Olympian gods shopped for bathroom accessories at Marks & Sparks.
    â€˜That’s better,’ she said. Her face was slightly pink, and a single moist curl was sneaking out onto her forehead from under the towel. ‘You must be Derek.’
    â€˜David.’
    â€˜Hmm? Oh, yes. Pleased to meet you. I’m Philippa Levens.’
    She held out her hand, as if she was interviewing him for a job. He shook it. She had a grip like a bench vice.
    â€˜Sorry for darting off like that,’ she said, crossing the room and flumping down on the sofa, ‘but you know how it is when you haven’t had a bath for simply ages. Well, unless you count that horrid green stuff as a bath. Could I be awfully pushy and get you to pour me a drink?’
    It took David three seconds to remember to breathe. ‘What? Oh, yes, sure. Um. What would you like?’
    â€˜Large whisky, please. Glenlivet if you’ve got any; if not, any old single malt’ll do. No ice, just a splash of Evian.’
    â€˜Coming right up.’ David shifted towards the kitchen, then stopped. Apart from the stuff that came out of the tap he had a dozen tea bags, a quarter of a jar of Gold Blend and two cans of lager, left over from his birthday before last. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I haven’t got anything like that.’
    â€˜Oh.’ She frowned, ever so slightly. ‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy nipping out and getting some. If it’s no bother.’
    â€˜Of course,’ David replied immediately. ‘Except it’s sort of after midnight. I don’t think there’s anywhere open.’
    â€˜Bother.’ She scratched the tip of her nose with her little finger. ‘So how are things on the food front? Or would it be easier if I went and had a look for myself?’
    â€˜Please, help yourself.’ The voice David could hear was his own, no question about that, but he couldn’t remember having chosen the words or made the decision to utter them. It was as if someone else was operating him by remote control. ‘It’s, um, through there.’
    â€˜Yes,’ she said, as she hopped off the sofa and vanished into the kitchen. She moved very fast, though without appearing to move at all. ‘Poo,’ she said, as she opened the fridge door (and, yes, she had a point; it didn’t smell particularly nice in there at the best of times, which this wasn’t). ‘There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot in here,’ she went on, examining a packet of half-fat Cheddar and putting it back.
    â€˜No,’ David replied. ‘Sorry. I didn’t think—’
    â€˜Never mind,’ she sad, ‘I expect I can last till morning. Just a few Ritz crackers and some Normandy butter would tide me over just fine.’
    â€˜There’s some ginger-nuts,’ David suggested helplessly. ‘Somewhere.’
    Philippa Levens breathed out slowly through her nose. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘The shops’ll be open in, what, seven hours. I don’t suppose I’ll actually starve to death between then and now. Talking of which, could I be an awful bore and get you to turn the heating up just a trifle? It’s a bit chilly sitting here in nothing but a towel.’
    David nodded, trying very hard to remember how the heating worked. He’d been there six years and never bothered with it, preferring to regulate his immediate environment by putting on or taking off sweaters. After a minute or so he found a knob on the side of the radiator and managed to get it to turn.
    â€˜Thanks,’ she said as he emerged from under the window, his knees grey with dust. ‘And now, would it be terribly rude of me if I said goodnight?’ She yawned exquisitely. ‘I know I’ve only been awake for a few minutes, but