Daniel was already fed up.
Since ending it with him, with no explanation, or none he was prepared to accept, Stace had deleted every photo of them together from her Facebook page, then unfriended him, then blocked him on WhatsApp. If she could have had the operation Kate Winslet had in that movie where ex-girlfriends with zany hair can erase their memories of failed relationships, she would have. She was probably saving up on the off chance that some prick might invent it.
Then there was his crappy flat. For weeks the showerhead had been dripping when it was switched off, then it was drizzling and, unable to ignore it any longer, Daniel called his landlord. The water was cascading by the time he came over and, banging about inside the stall, he took the shower unit apart, cursed its innards, then came out, admitted it was terminal, and promised to buy a new unit and install it the next day.
Four days later, he’d yet to return, having repeatedly cancelled via text: Tomorrow evening, mate. Promise! And, conscious that his flat was cheap by London standards and his landlord had the power to raise the rent, Daniel was obliging: Cool, no worries!
