Free The Sunshine Cruise Company by John Niven

situation is, Susan,’ Alan said.
    ‘Actually I’d much prefer it if you called me Mrs Frobisher if it’s all the same to you. You sit here, getting rich off people like me, and the minute we come to you for help, it’s –’
    ‘Susan,’ Roger said, touching her arm gently. She pulled it away angrily.
    ‘Look,’ Alan said, shooting his cuffs, sitting upright and suddenly becoming Mr Glass in the process, ‘Mrs Frobisher …’
    Julie hurried towards the ringing doorbell, thinking
Keep your bloody hair on
. She’d been slicing a tomato for her late lunch of a tomato on toast. (Julie had to shop and budget very, very carefully these days.) When she made these humble meals she often found her interior monologue talking to her in the manner of a TV chef – Ramsay or Jamie Oliver – explaining what they were doing to the camera.
‘We’re going to make sure the toast is really hot, straight off the grill, and then some lovely thick slices of tomato, plenty of salt and pepper, and …
’ It made it seem more glamorous somehow.
    She had to travel the entire length of her flat towards the front door, from the kitchenette, through the living room and down the hall. It took her just twelve paces and ten seconds to accomplish this. She opened the door to see Susan standing there in the pouring, pouring rain. She was trying to speak. ‘I … uh … uh …’ Christ, Julie thought. Has she been hit by a car or something? Susan was soaked through and her mascara had streaked all down her face. Panda eyes? Her eyes were those of a panda in August with very bad hay fever who has run out of antihistamines about an hour after they’ve been told their whole family has been killed. ‘Uh … they … I …’
    ‘Easy, easy, darling. What’s happened?’ She pulled her friend into the hallway, out of the rain. Susan was like a five-year-old in the middle of one of the biggest crying jags known to man: struggling to get the words out between racking sobs, almost like she was permanently riding the crest of a huge sneeze.
    ‘Th … they … THEY’RE GOING TO TAKE MY HOUSE!
’
    She fell forward, collapsing weeping in Julie’s arms.

SEVENTEEN
    MUCH LATER, THE windows were open to the humid night, the coffee table littered with dishes, glasses, bottles and an overflowing ashtray, Julie having broken her own rule about smoking in the flat. Even Susan had taken one! When had she last seen Susan with a cigarette in her mouth? Before decimalisation probably. They were slouched on the floor, out of the Smirnoff now and on to the Popol vodka: a cheeky little number Julie had picked up at a petrol station. A tenner for a litre. Mixed with orange juice it was fine, just about killed the tang of formaldehyde, Julie thought, and Julie knew a thing or two about cocktails. Also, Julie thought, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Susan Frobisher drink quite this much. She was
knocking
it back. ‘Tango in the Night’ by Fleetwood Mac played softly in the background on Julie’s little CD boom box. The CD. Another relic.
    ‘Little shit looked about fourteen,’ Susan said, hiccuping as she topped herself up. ‘Your future matters TO US!’
    ‘Bastards,’ Julie said. ‘They wreck the world, get bailed out by the taxpayer, and as soon as you’re in trouble it’s “Fuck you. Fuck you very much.”’
    ‘I’m not kidding. He was younger than my Tom.’
    ‘I’ve got one of them at work. Kendal. Administrator. Horrible cow. Straight out of college and given their own little fiefdoms to run.’
    There was a pause as they both sipped their drinks. Susan sighed. ‘Homeless and penniless. I didn’t see this one coming, Jules.’
    ‘Join the club. It wasn’t exactly my master plan to wind up here …’ Julie gestured around her, at the tiny flat, four small rooms: bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom. (At least, she’d thought, the Coalition’s new bedroom tax wouldn’t hit her.) ‘You work all your life and …’
    ‘Come