12. Chapter 12
12
Layla
I have a rare day off and I plan to do nothing but read and spend it on this sofa, snuggled under my blanket. I will not, absolutely will not, keep checking my phone to see whether Luca has messaged me.
And I will absolutely not admit that I have the pocket square in my top drawer next to my vibrator.
My phone rings and I grab it. The care home. My stomach lurches. Grandad.
“Hello?”
“Layla, it’s Sylvia.” The manager, someone I like very much. She was one of the reasons why he felt so safe.
I throw my iPad to the side and sit up. “Is he all right?”
“Oh, yes, dear, sorry, he’s fine. Sitting in his chair.”
I smile. It has the best view of the tree and birds.
“Look, Layla, I’m really sorry to have to call you, but this month’s bill hasn’t been settled yet, and we had to do another assessment after he almost had that fall last month. We’re going to have to up his care package.”
I groan inwardly. If the bill hasn’t been cleared, the payments bounced, which means the bastard Alec hasn’t paid me on time, again.
I rub at the throbbing pain in my temple.
“Oh, God, Sylvia. I should have been paid, I’m going to have to chase my employer again, I’m so sorry this keeps happening.” My cheeks heat. I can’t even look after myself, let alone my grandad.
Who was I kidding?
“I understand your circumstance, Layla. Do you want to review your payment plan?” Tears prick the back of my eyes and I clear my throat.
This is mortifying.
“I think so,” I say sadly. “Do you know how much the additional care plan will be for the monthly payments?” I’m dreading the answer, but I need to know just how up the creek I’m going to be.
“We’re looking at another ten thousand pounds a year, which will increase the bill to seventy-two thousand per annum. And you are already carrying quite the debt, my love.”
She is sympathetic, and I silently thank her for it.
“There are other lovely care homes in the area, dear. Do you want me to schedule some visits? I’d happily come with you.”
No. We’ve had this conversation. She wants what’s best for him, but she also runs a business and now he’s in the room of a potential paying customer.
“You know I can’t move him.”
“He will eventually settle in another place though. It may just take some time.”
“But he’s safe there, he feels safe there.”
She’s right, she’s the expert and a little voice in my head says I’m being selfish. I keep him there because moving him would give me more heartache and stress. Even though, in the long run, it would be better for me and my financial situation. I look to the hallway, tapping my fingers against my lips.
“How much in arrears is my account?”
“You’re still chipping away at last year’s fees, with this year’s as well, we’re looking at just over ninety-five thousand pounds.”
Any blood that was left in my face drains, and I lean forward, puffing out the air from my cheeks. Katy surely had this figure on my spreadsheet; why wouldn’t she have told me?
Unless I neglected to admit that I hadn’t paid off last year’s costs.
“Can you give me until next Friday? I’ll be up there anyway, and can you talk me through his latest assessment then too?”
“Okay, that sounds good, shall I book you in at,” she pauses, likely checking her calendar, “how about 11, does that work? Then you can have your usual lunch with him.”
“Perfect. Okay, I’ll see you then.”
I hang up the phone and throw it on the floor, burying my head in my hands.
I pounce on Katy as soon as she crosses the threshold into our flat. “Can I see the spreadsheet of doom, please?”
“Oh. Hi, honey. Yes, I’ve had a fabulous day. Oh, I would love a glass of wine, thank you.”
I roll my eyes.
“Why do you want to see the spreadsheet of doom?” she asks as she follows me into the living room to get her laptop. She sits at the small oak table and powers it up.
I head off into the kitchen, grabbing us a bottle of wine and pour two glasses. “Because I think I neglected to tell you something.”
“God, really? Bad?”
“Horrendous.” I take a gulp of wine, sitting in one of the chairs opposite her. The screen illuminates her pretty features, her work makeup still in place, her eyes searching the screen. She turns it around and I lean forward.
I locate the Outgoing tab and navigate to the cell that has the Village amount, tapping in the new information Sylvia gave me this morning, adding my additional debt in as well.
“Oh.” I spin the laptop back round, the negative value in the bottom right turning into an even brighter red. Okay, that’s a lie: it’s the exact same colour but in my mind it got darker and is flashing, taunting me.
Katy scans the page and takes a sip of wine, launching forward, throwing her hand in front of her mouth to avoid spitting all over the device.
“Fucking hell.” She looks at me, her eyes wide. “What are you going to do, Lay?”
I feel like a complete and utter failure at life.
“I need to get that will.” I stand and start pacing. “Fuck fuck fuck. I need a stronger drink.” I say, gulping at my wine.
“You know drinking isn’t the answer.”
“No, it’s not, but unless you have a spare one hundred thou, I think a vodka will make me feel better.”
Katy tilts her head to one side. “Do you want to put it on ice?”
“At this point, I’ll take it as it comes.”
She shakes her head, laughing. “No, not the alcohol. I meant your problems. Do you want to put them on ice?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Fuck it, let’s go out.”
I stare at her. I can’t get the will until tomorrow; it’s somewhere in Grandad’s room or in one of his boxes the care home stores for him.
“Fuck,” I say, standing. “What’s another hundred pounds.”
I’ll regret it in the morning but fuck it. Honestly.
Fuck it.
I pull the leather jacket closer, but I’m still freezing as we join the queue at a we absolutely must go to this club club.
Katy has been here before and loves the atmosphere, and it supposedly plays the best house tracks .
Spreadsheet of doom problems have been pushed to the back of my mind, replaced by the buzz of vodka from the few bars we have been to.
My hair has been tamed by Katy’s amazing blow-drying skills. My blonde hair frames my face in loose curls running down to my boobs. My blue eyes have been given a smouldering look, with different shades of grey. The ruffled midriff of my new little black dress—well, new to me; it’s Katy’s—hides all my extra lumps and bumps, along with the one-piece body suit I’m wearing underneath.
I’m also wearing a pair of old black ankle boots that were deep in the dark recesses of my wardrobe. I don’t recognise them, so can only think they were my mum’s.
Katy waves the wand of a lip gloss over her mouth and stands next to me, taking in the bodies in front of her.
“I fucking hate queueing.”
“You’re British, suck it up, sweetheart.” I grin. I hate queueing too, especially when I’m freezing my tits off.
Her dark hair is straightened and her long bob accentuates her dark caramel eyes. She’s wearing a sleeveless black dress with her amazing boobs on show, no jacket. How is she not cold?
“Why are you dancing?” Katy asks as I move from side to side.
“Because I’m cold, I’m going to get piles at this rate.”
She snorts. “You get piles from sitting on cold things, not standing in the cold.”
“All right, frostbite then.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not that cold. Besides, you’ve got a jacket and long sleeves.”
“Of mesh, Katy, not wool. You can’t class it as a layer.”
“I can. It’s a layer.” I pull my top open and thrust my chest out to her, demonstrating how thin it is. The sheer material covers the top part of the dress, and underneath is a low V neck, black short dress. I look slutty.
Hot, but slutty. And I have zero shame in it. I feel good.
I look good.
“This is not a layer. Look, you can see my nipples through it.”
She laughs, pushing me. I wobble and giggle.
“Ladies.” A huge man appears on my right, unclipping the rope that separates us from the rest of the pavement. “Can you come with me?”
“You got us in trouble because they thought you were flashing your tits at their poor patrons,” Katy says, laughing, but follows the bald bouncer out of the queue. We head into the reception area, the warmth of the club hits me like a humid summer’s day. The bouncer checks our coats in, and leads us to the desk, we hang onto each other, giggling, the whole way.
“Guests of Mr Rook,” the bouncer says.
The hostess smiles and nods then picks up something from behind the desk. “Here are two VIP tickets. You have some credit on those that can be used at the bar. VIP is through the back stairs. Have a great evening.” She passes us two black plastic cards, with scripted gold writing.
“Ooh, fancy,” Katy says, looking at the card.
I open my black sparkling clutch and pop the card in. “Who the hell is Mr Rook?” I ask.
Katy shrugs. “They sometimes do that, if they’re lacking a certain clientele. They’ll hook them out of the queue.”
“We’re not hookers,” I say loudly, the brain to mouth filter completely gone.
“They know that.” Katy laughs. “Don’t look so terrified.”
We cross through an intimate bar area and follow the beat of the music, heading into a larger room with a dance floor, and another large bar on the back wall.
I’m excited.
It’s an odd feeling; I don’t usually go out, I don’t usually drink, I don’t usually dance in public. But here I am letting Katy lead me through the throngs of people. I’m warm from the alcohol, and I feel safe knowing that Katy has my back. She has made sure I know what to do if I lose her.
Heads turn our way.
“Own it,” she whispers in my ear, feeling my discomfort.
“This is so not me,” I whisper back, tugging at the dress, desperately trying not to fall over and make a twat of myself.
“So, wear a mask tonight, Layla. No one knows you here, you can be anyone you want to be.”
“That’s what you do?” I ask as she pulls out the black VIP card and leans forward, her cleavage on show, as she tries to make eye contact with a server.
“Yeah, it’s fun.” She glances at me, then turns her attention back to the bar. “I always stick to my name, but I change my occupation. Flirt enough to get a drink, but make sure you’re there when they buy it, or you order, and they pay. Never accept a drink off a random.”
“I’ve been out before, Katy.” I shake my head. “Besides, we don’t need to flirt to get a drink, we just use the card.”
“I know you have. I just want you to have fun.”
Because tomorrow, when I face the cold light of day, I have some serious things to do. But tonight, I’m burying my head in the sand. I’m manifesting positive thoughts though. Or so I’ve been told to by Katy. To be honest I’m just drinking.
Maybe tonight I won’t be Layla Johnson who has no money, is alone and has had to put her life on hold. No, tonight I’m a medical student who likes to have fun and is caring for her grandad.
I need more alcohol.