Apparently the building superintendent already let the gas company turn off my service. Which means my shower was cold enough to refreeze the Greenland ice shelf. At least I still have electricity. Except my heat is gas, too, so it’s colder than a witch’s tit in here, and I am huddled in an igloo made of my wardrobe so I don’t freeze to death.
Maybe that would be better, actually. Rupert will come on Friday to make sure I’m out of the apartment and they will find my stiff, blue body under the pile of designer clothing, and Rupert and Heather Smithe and Arthur Leyton and that girl who serves the tea will all feel instantly terrible and they’ll shake their heads and whisper, “Such a shame, we should’ve been nicer to poor Lara,” and then Rupert will have a massive headache brought on by the
