Free Can't Live Without by Joanne Phillips

circumstances …’
    ‘No reason, just wondered,’ I say quickly.
    Of course it wasn’t arson, I just have this uneasy feeling in my belly, and a strong conviction that someone must be to blame. A bad thing happens and it’s somebody’s fault. That’s how it works, right?
    ‘So? What was it then?’ I force myself to ask.
    ‘Your washing machine!’ he announces triumphantly.
    There is a long pause.
    ‘My washing machine set fire to my house?’ I say, incredulously. Visions invade my mind of the machine coming to life and dousing the kitchen in petrol, water hoses waving around menacingly, the round glass door a sinister moon-face.
    ‘Indirectly, yes. It took us a while to figure it out, this fault is very rare. But we persevered, took apart every appliance, analysed every possible source of ignition. You wouldn’t believe what you can deduce, even when something is terrifically damaged.’
    He pauses as if waiting for praise or recognition. None is forthcoming so he carries on.
    ‘A rare fault, as I said, seen in machines which are old and haven’t been regularly serviced.’
    ‘But …’ I stammer, ‘but, I – I didn’t even have the washing machine on. I’d just got up, for God’s sake!’
    ‘The machine doesn’t need to be actually going at the time. It was plugged in and left switched on. Something malfunctions, sparks fly, and the rest, as they say, is history.’
    His voice recedes as the world starts to darken. I lean all my weight against the skip behind me and slide down it until I am sitting awkwardly on the ground. A cat, skinny and mangy, sleeks past me and picks at the remains of a kebab still in its wrapper. I watch it through flat eyes. The words echo and crash around my head.
    Old machines. Not regularly serviced. Plugged in and left on. But I did this all the time, no one had ever told me not to, told me to unplug every appliance the minute I’d finished using it. And who knew they had to get their washing machine serviced? It breaks down you get it fixed. That was how we did it when I was growing up.
    This is clearly no excuse, however. Reading between the lines, I know exactly what the jobsworth fire investigator is trying to tell me.
    ‘Hello. Hello? Are you still there, Miss Hill?’
    I drop the phone amidst the rubbish and put my head into my hands. He is trying to tell me that all of this is my fault and my fault alone. And the worst of it? I know it’s true. I have burned down my own house through ignorance and neglect.
     
    ***
     
    I stay late at the office again, waiting for my second date with Joshua. He called a little while ago to tell me that we’re going to an upmarket restaurant recently opened by some friends of his.
    I ponder his use of the word “upmarket”. Does it mean he thinks my usual eateries are downmarket? Has he observed me bringing in my shopping bags (Happy Shopper? Netto?) and compared them unfavourably to his own Waitrose habit? Am I properly dressed for a meeting with high-flying restaurant-owning friends? Or should I race up to the shops again and buy another outfit, something more upmarket ? Maybe just another pair of shoes?
    After much agonising I decide against it. There isn’t much left of the sub Paul gave me and it’s two more weeks until payday. Although I start my new job at Café Crème this Thursday – which I am actually really excited about – I’m planning to use my wages from there to buy something nice for Lipsy. Besides, I really can’t summon up the energy to go shopping again. All those lovely things I can’t afford – it’s just too depressing.
    I undo the top two buttons of my blouse instead and twist my hair up into a pleat, securing it with a purple butterfly clip I find in Susan’s drawer. Lipstick and lashes follow. My reflection in the mirrored panels behind the displays isn’t all that reassuring but it will have to do. What do I care, anyway? It’s not as if I’m really that interested in Joshua. But while