That horrible woman from the funeral just knocked on the door. I asked Andrew not to let her in but she said she'd been brutally attacked. She did look terrible. I don't know what happened to her but she's... well, she's a vindictive person so she may have brought it on herself.

The grocer didn't try to attack me when he drove me over. Just the usual rigmarole, messing about, asking if I'd give him a kiss and that sort of thing. He didn't touch me or anything, but then he did start asking me very personal questions. He asked me about Andrew, was he my boyfriend? What sort of thing did we get up to? Did Andrew ever ask me to do things for him for money? It felt so horrible and I didn't answer anything, then he said something about 'I don't appreciate you ignoring me, I'm only trying to be nice to you. I've always been nice to you and what have I had in return? A few kisses and a slap across the face.'

I tried to ignore this as well. Finally he let me go and I was really hoping Andrew would let me in. He did. But he let Kimberley in as well, so maybe it's not something very special.

I'm glad, in a way. A large part of me wants Andrew to hate me and stop being nice to me. Because the guilt is overwhelming. He's so like Dylan and the guilt about Dylan is overwhelming. I can't even get to sleep at night now, I'm eating more. And I don't know what happened to my face. It used to be pretty enough, but I've got dark rings round my eyes, and not just because of the shiners.

Anyway, Kimberley seemed to be her usual self. She looked at me and said 'Nose job, is it?'. But I just smiled and nodded, which I think threw her off, and she didn't reply. I asked her if she'd had any operations, and she said 'Don't be daft. What can they do with a mug like this?' I thought it was a bit of an ambiguous statement, so I asked her if she thought I should have any operations. I could never afford them, but it was a nice thought. She said, 'I wouldn't worry about it love. All you need's a bit of concealer. You don't wear any makeup, do you?' I said no. I can't even afford makeup. Kimberley wears a lot, actually. I don't know if I mentioned this but she must be about 33, and she wears lipstick, concealer, foundations, gloss, mascara, lipliner... all the things I used to stare at going past the makeup counter with my parents when I was a teenager. And she wears nail varnish that matches her lipstick. Her hands look well looked after, so I don't imagine she's had a difficult profession. My parents have the same hands. Andrew bites his nails almost down to the elbow. The grocer always has dirt and grime on his hands.

She sat next to me on the sofa where Andrew's mum sleeps, and Andrew sat on the other side, smiling at me in a reassuring way. I couldn't bear it. The silence was starting to close in and I was about to break it by saying something, but then Kimberley's phone was ringing. It was Greg, wanting to know where she was.

The End

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