Free Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend by Jenny Colgan

if any of the boys were going to come out and help me up with my luggage. I gave them a good couple of minutes at the bottom of the path, but no dice. Maybe they weren’t going to do anything until the cheque cleared. Or they’d been brought up in barns. That was certainly true of Wolverine, at least. So I lugged both the cases up myself, hurling them over the mattress, and heaved them to the end of the little dark corridor.
     
    The room hadn’t magically expanded, Tardis-like, since I’d been away. Neither was it filled with fresh welcoming flowers and a bottle of champagne.
     
    I reckon flat sharing definitely needs an image overhaul. They should call it boutique living, something like that. Like a Manhattan hotel room - yes, this is a tiny cupboard with a view of a brick wall. But, hey, let us distract you by putting eleven pillows on the bed! Something like that. The broken, crappy wardrobe would take about three minidresses and no more. I pushed an entire suitcase under the bed immediately; it could support the broken springs.
     
    The house was silent. Then I sat down on the bed and wondered what to do next. My nose prickled with the dust as I noticed a piece of paper on the floor that had obviously been pushed underneath the door.
     
    Please, it said hopefully at the top,
     
    clean toilet
     
    and bathroom
     
    and kitchen
     
    and window’s
     
    I tutted to myself about the spare apostrophe
     
    and floor’s.
     
    Thank you.
     
    It didn’t say how often they required these things done. Once a week? Daily? And did floors include the floors of their bedrooms? I decided immediately that it didn’t. I had no intention of entering any of these trolls’ rooms.
     
    Esperanza had sent me away with a care package of her favourite cleaning products. Like a goodie bag, I supposed, only much, much shitter.
     
    In lieu of a single thing to do or, I gulped, a single person in the world even knowing where I was - I supposed my mobile phone still worked, I didn’t bother checking it any more. Everyone had stopped phoning. Actually, I wondered about that - Daddy had always just taken care of the bill. Maybe that would stop too. I checked the phone. Sure enough, it said, ‘This number is not in service’. Shit. I’d never even got my own phone before. It had always come in through Daddy’s office. I sat down on the bed. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t, wouldn’t, wouldn’t cry.
     
    I pulled on a pair of Juicy sweatpants that I normally would never wear if I wasn’t on my way to Pilates (little did I know then how much I was about to start living in them) and a C&C T-shirt. I would just have to treat it as my workout, that was all. Put some loud music on and pretend it was the hot new thing, like when everyone tried to pretend that pole dancing was a workout.
     
    Kitchen first. I don’t think I’d ever seen a more depressing room in my life. It was just so miserably dark and grim, with the cheapest, nastiest work surfaces, specially designed to trap germs and grot. Orange, brown and green tiles fought for space on the wall. The fridge looked like one of those fridges that could appear in newspapers with odd-looking women saying, ‘I bought this fridge in 1952 and it’s still working!’ Or, it could have if it had been looked after or - I sniffed suspiciously - was actually working.
     
    I found an egg-spattered radio - maybe Capital would have something perky to cheer me up.
     
    ‘Welcome back to Indie Boys Radio,’ intoned a voice. ‘And now our Smiths’ marathon continues with “Never Had No One Ever”.’
     
    I tried to find something else, but only came up against static, or hollering pirate stations broadcast from the tops of nearby tower blocks. It was a very old radio. But that was not going to matter! It was all about keeping a positive attitude. I just had to get through this, and the next couple of months, then I could go home - with my new, rock-hard biceps - come into my