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milk.’
    Andrew made three identical teas – no sugar, don’t go mental with the milk – plopping one on Jenny’s unoccupied desk; resting one on the radiator next to the girl; and
wheeling his chair over so that he was sitting next to her, before looping his fingers through the third.
This
is how you got through Mondays in February.
    The girl smiled properly, holding the mug underneath her bottom lip and sucking on the warm fumes. ‘I’m Fiona.’
    ‘You look cold.’
    She shrugged and took a sip of the tea. She wasn’t looking at Andrew, more gazing through him. ‘I saw your name in the paper the other month and got your office number from the
operator.’
    ‘Are you . . . homeless?’
    Fiona shook her head. ‘I can just about pay my rent but that doesn’t include bills, so I don’t put the heating on. You know what it’s like with British Gas.’
    It wasn’t just Andrew who knew – everyone did. In a public popularity poll, energy companies were ranked below the Nazis, Piers Morgan, and that bloke who answers his phone in a
cinema.
    ‘I’ve been saving,’ she added.
    ‘For what?’
    She wriggled on the seat, thrusting a hand into her back pocket and pulling out a wad of crumpled five- and ten-pound notes, before dropping them on Andrew’s lap. He put his tea on the
floor and then picked up the money, flattening the notes between his fingers until he’d counted the sixty quid, and placing them on the radiator.
    ‘I’m not going to take your money, Fiona.’
    ‘But I need your help.’
    ‘What do you need?’
    Fiona opened her mouth to answer but the door rattled open. A bristle of chilled air followed and then Jenny came in, complete with a Morrison’s bag for life. Her black ponytail swung from
side to side as she closed the door, spinning on the spot, dimple on show.
    ‘You’ll never guess what this guy said to me on the bus . . . oh . . .’
    Her brown eyes locked on Fiona, instantly examining the scene: freezing cold girl, sixty quid, mugs of tea, Jammie Dodgers.
    She held up the bag, offering it to the other girl: ‘I’ve got some choccie biscuits if you want – and some mini rolls. I’m Jenny, by the way.’
    Andrew gave her a barely there nod to indicate all was well as Fiona held up her half-nibbled biscuit. ‘I’m okay.’
    Jenny motioned towards the door but Andrew shook his head, nodding at her chair. Plenty of room at the inn.
    ‘What is it you need?’ Andrew tried again.
    Fiona stared into the tan-coloured tea. ‘Everyone’s saying my dad did something that he didn’t. They all hate him, so everyone hates me. People spit at me in the street. I used
to live in Oldham but my old landlord threw me out, so I’m living in this horrible place where I can’t afford the heating. I had a job in this office but no one wanted to work with me
– they wouldn’t even talk to me. I thought that if I came to the city centre, there’d be more places to hide, more people, that they wouldn’t know me.’ She stopped,
breathing and sniffling, then adding: ‘But there’s always someone . . .’
    She stopped for another bite of the biscuit. Her sentences had come out so quickly that Andrew needed a few moments to take it all in. Before he could ask any follow-up questions, she was off
again.
    ‘I had to use a fake name to get the new flat just in case – and then I gave my neighbours a different name, not that we talk to each other anyway. Then my CV’s all over the
place. I can’t use my actual name, which means none of my exams are going to show up if they check – plus I can’t ask for a reference. I just . . .’ She stopped again,
exhaling heavily and blinking rapidly. ‘I’m not sure what to do.’
    Andrew met Jenny’s eyes across the room but she shrugged in answer to the silent question. She didn’t know who Fiona was either.
    ‘Who’s your father, Fiona?’
    The girl shook her head, sloshing a drip of tea over the top of the mug onto her finger. She