In the morning Rona woke up - woken by the sunlight - and went into the kitchen to make herself some coffee, and on the kitchen bench she found the fridge magnet with all the real estate agent's 'phone numbers on it. A conciliatory gesture from Miranda, she supposed: if the magnet had been there the previous night she would've seen it. Even in the near-dark.

She'd slept soundly, just as Miranda had said she would, though she'd woken at about four in the morning from the combined effects of needing desperately to go to the toilet - too much wine the night before, drunk as a relaxant - and a dream about electricity; not exactly a nightmare, but an anxiety dream full of sparks and suddenly failing light and a prevailing mood of danger and Miranda, for her sins, cast in the role of villain of the piece. Rona didn't know where her subconscious had got that from, but it shamed her slightly and if Miranda had still been around when Rona had got up Rona would've apologised to her, though she wouldn't have said what for.

While the kettle was boiling Rona picked up the 'phone and dialled the most prominently displayed number on the magnet. A receptionist answered and Rona said: "Oh, hi", already speaking in a tone of apology though she didn't know why. She gave her name and address and explained the problem.

"Okay" said the receptionist carefully, as if weighing options in her mind (or more likely, Rona supposed, as if eyeing another two or three other lines that were also ringing). "You'll have to come into the office and fill out a maintenance report."

"Where's the office again?" Rona asked. She couldn't remember having been there at all except to sign the lease when she and Miranda had moved in. When they paid rent they did it online, at the local library, though Miranda worried that it wasn't secure.

The receptionist gave her an address and Rona wrote it down, and then realised sheepishly that it was written on the fridge magnet. "Can I come in and do that today?" she asked.

"Of course!" said the receptionist.

"Okay, good." Lazy writers Rona could handle; customers she was okay with; but she still hated talking on the 'phone to anyone with any kind of authority, or even just proximity to it.