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simplest way to get rid of her would have been to throw her out with my own two hands, but I was afraid that if I laid even a finger on her she would claim that I had abused her, and that was not a risk I was willing to take.
    ‘You didn’t go home last night,’ I pointed out, in a final attempt to make her leave. ‘Your family or friends must be getting really worried about you. If you want to let anyone know where you are, feel free to use the phone.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t think so. For starters, no one ever worries about me, which I’ll admit is quite sad. As for your phone, I think you’ve just been cut off,’ she answered without missing a beat as she wandered back into the living room.
    I watched her move toward the large table that I used as a desk. She waved a stack of bills at me with a grin.
    ‘Hardly surprising, really,’ she remarked. ‘You haven’t paid your phone bill in months!’
    That was the final straw. Without thinking, I threw myself at her and knocked her to the ground. So what if I was accused of assault? At that moment I would have preferred that to having to hear one more word from her. I held her down, one hand behind her knees and the other round her waist. She struggled as much as she could, but I was not going to let go. I dragged her out onto the terrace where I deposited her unceremoniously on the ground, as far away as possible, before marching back into the living room and shutting the glass door behind me.
    Much better! Nothing like doing things the old-fashioned way, works every time .
    Why had I put up with the intruder for so long? In the end, it hadn’t proved difficult to get rid of her! Whatever I said tothe contrary in my novels, sometimes physical force speaks much louder than words.
    I watched the young woman I had locked out with a satisfied smile. She responded to my sudden good mood by giving me the finger.
    Finally I was alone again!
    I needed to relax. The house being empty of all medication, I turned to my iPod and, with the precision of an alchemist preparing a soothing potion, I concocted an eclectic playlist centred around Miles Davis, John Coltrane and Philip Glass. I plugged the iPod into my speakers and the room was suddenly filled with the opening notes of Kind of Blue , the loveliest jazz album ever composed, even to people who didn’t like jazz.
    In the kitchen I made some more coffee, then went back into the living room, hoping that my strange visitor would have disappeared.
    I was wrong.
    Clearly annoyed – again, that was putting it mildly – she had started to destroy the breakfast that she herself had served. The cafetière, the plates, the mugs, the glass tray; in short everything that could be smashed was being thrown onto the terracotta paving stones. Then, shaking with rage, she slammed her fists repeatedly against the sliding doors, before hurling a garden chair at them with all her might. The chair just clattered to the floor, repelled by the bulletproof glass on the doors.
    ‘I AM BILLIE!’ she yelled over and over again, but her words were muffled by the triple glazing, and I guessed rather than heard what she was saying. All this racket was going to wake the neighbours soon, and then hopefully filter down to the security team at the gates, who would come and relieve me of this pain in the butt.
    By this point, she had collapsed by the door. Holding her head in her hands, she finally seemed to have given up. I felt moved by her obvious distress, and watched her intently, realising that what she had said to me had aroused if not quite fascination, then at least curiosity.
    She lifted her head and through the strands of honey-gold hair I saw her forget-me-not eyes take on a troubled expression.
    I moved closer and sat down on my side of the glass wall, looking at her intently, trying to find the truth of the situation, if not an explanation. It was then that I saw her blink as though she were trying to hold back tears. I moved back and saw that