Rachel Yates lived in an identical box across the tiny hall of the converted top floor, and in disarray. Her kitchenette was covered in yellow sticky notes with cryptic messages like ‘unsalted butter wtf?’ and ‘JODIE’S PENCIL’ in chicken-scratch handwriting. She had more pink knickers drying on the radiator under the window, threw a cherry tomato at Darren’s head, and imperiously demanded if he knew how to make an omelette.
“I’m crap,” she said. “You’d better know.”
“Do I get some of it if I do make it?”
“A quarter.”
“A third, or you and your tomatoes can go fu…”
“Fine, Jesus.”
She rummaged in the fridge; Darren complimented the knicker-clad arse, and got another tomato bounced off his cheek for his efforts.
“Perv,” she said.
“You’re the one who invited a total stranger into your f
