ELLIE
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little envious of Kathryn’s house.
She and Greg bought it a few years ago and within months, she had it exactly how she wanted it.
No half-painted walls, no worn carpet, no chipped sink—but that’s where the envy stops.
There’s no character, no warmth, no feeling.
In fact, it doesn’t even feel like a home most of the time, just an empty shell made to look pretty.
Which is funny because that’s how I’d describe my sister.
I pull up outside and cut the engine, stepping out onto the kerb before I can convince myself it’s a bad idea; because, despite running over my lines in the car, I know for a fact that as soon as I come face-to-face with Kathryn I will deviate from the plan.
There’s a small path leading to their front door, a freshly painted bottle green gate at the threshold which I push open, making my way towards the house.
Deep breaths, Ellie. You can do this.
But the truth is, I hate confrontation. I’ve never been good at it. I come across feeble, like a soggy biscuit dunked for too long in a hot brew and on the cusp of breaking.
I pause for a moment, considering my options of either knocking or running away, when the door opens a crack and Greg, still in a grey work suit, tie loosened, pokes his head out.
He holds my gaze for a second, then he says, “Ellie, is everything okay?”
I raise my eyebrows, folding my arms over my chest. The audacity of this guy. What is he expecting me to say? ‘ Oh, hi, Greg. Kathryn screwed me over, but everything’s peachy . Thanks for asking.’
“No, everything is not okay,” I say. “I need to speak with my sister. Now. ”
He turns to look away, checking something behind him, but he keeps his body in the gap between the door and its frame, blocking my view into the house.
A moment later, he faces me again, a frown pulling at his lips.
“Kathryn’s got a headache. Maybe you should come back another day.”
Headache, my bum.
“It won’t take a minute,” I say, smiling sweetly.
But Greg has his response ready.
“She’s not up to it, El, honest.”
I sigh, studying the door, wondering if I can barge it open, but Greg must catch on because he squeezes onto the doorstep and pulls it shut behind him.
“Look. I’m sorry about the email thing,” he says. “But?—”
“I just want my money back,” I say. “That’s all. I don’t want any drama. I don’t want to cause a fuss in front of your neighbours.” I cast a glance over my shoulder, already feeling the burning glare of Mrs ‘Across-the-Street’ peering at us through her net curtains. “All I want is my money back.”
“Your money back?” Greg pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry what?”
“My money,” I say again. “The money I lent Kathryn to start her business. Seven grand. I wa—” I stop myself. “I need it back.”
Greg’s face twists into a contorted smile, then he laughs. A belly chuckle I associate with mockery.
“Seven … seven grand?”
“Yes,” I say, my expression sombre.
His laugh dies, and his expression turns sour.
“Seven grand to start?—”
“Yes. Like I said, I lent her seven grand to start the business. My share of Grandad’s money,” I say. “And I could really?—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I put the money in the salon. All of it.”
“Well, you couldn’t have paid for it all,” I say. “I definitely lent her money, and I’ve got proof.” I rummage in my bag for my phone, but the unmistakable sound of a door slamming pulls my attention back.
He’s gone. He’s actually gone.
I try the handle, but it’s locked; I’m met with its firm resistance, not willing to budge.
“Greg?” I shout. “Greg?”
I use the palm of my hand to pound on the frosted glass of the door.
Bang, bang, bang.
I try the knocker next. Frantically forcing it up and down, desperate to make myself heard. Not like he could have forgotten I’m out here.
But there’s nothing. No shadows through the glass, no muffled conversation. Nothing.
I idle on the doorstep for a moment before fumbling for my phone, hoping to call, text, something… but the screen stays dark, and I remember—I was meant to charge it on the drive here.
Throwing it back into my bag, I knock again. Hammering my fist this time.
Bang, bang, bang.
But still nothing.
And when I tread across the perfectly manicured lawn to peer through the window, I find the curtains drawn shut.
I feel defeated. Defeated and exhausted. But I hold out for another few minutes before backing away, retreating to the comfort of my car where I lock my doors and lean back in my seat.
What now? I guess I could wait out here. Keep tabs on her front door … because she’ll have to leave, eventually. But I’m getting hungry and after all the travelling I’ve done today, I’m keen to crawl into bed and sink into a deep sleep—after I text Mike, of course .
I dig through the centre console, looking for the cable to charge my phone, when my fingers brush across the paper of the winning scratch cards from the petrol station trip with Mike. A moment that actually feels like forever ago.
They were winners, right?
I plug the cable into my phone before picking up the cards, scanning the detail. What did Mike say? Anything under a fiver … reinvest?
With the hope of speaking to Kathryn swept away like a pile of hair clippings, I start the engine, toss the cards into my bag, and pull away from her street, heading in the direction of the big supermarket on the edge of town.
I’m in and out in less than fifteen minutes, grabbing something to make for dinner, a bottle of wine and four replacement scratchcards. Typically, I’d be keen to drive home and get into my pyjamas, but I can’t wait. I dig in my purse for a penny and read the rules, coin poised ready.
Match three to win.
Okay, that’s straightforward enough, and if I lose, then I have lost nothing. But if I win … maybe I won’t need to ask Kathryn for anything back. Maybe I can go there tomorrow on the premise of gloating instead.
I chuckle to myself. The realisation that I have more faith in a bit of card than I do my own sister.
I get started, rubbing away the surface as I whisper a silent prayer to whatever God is listening.
Card one is a loser.
Card two is a loser.
Card three is a winner. Two whole pounds.
But card four is even better.
“Huh,” I say to myself, turning the card over in my hand. That can’t be right, can it?
I grab my phone, wait for it to power on and pull up the camera app, snapping a picture of the card before sending it on to Mike, tapping out a caption .
Would you reinvest this? Or take it as the ultimate win?
I flick through several messages from clients as I wait for him to reply, but I’m halted mid-read when my phone rings in my hand. Mike’s name flashing up on the screen.
A video call.
My nerves kick up a notch, though I’m not sure why. I saw him this morning and—God. I realise I was just as nervous then too.
I take a breath and hit accept, beaming back at Mike as his face fills the screen.
“Sweetheart,” he says, a buzz in his voice like he’s been drinking.
“Remember when I told you a fiver is the limit? That was for good reason. I once bought fifty scratch cards with my fifty quid winnings, and I won a grand total of thirty quid. Which naturally, I reinvested and won even less so … bottom line: take the fifty.”
“Fifty scratchcards?” I say, my jaw dropping.
“Yeah, but now I think about, perhaps I should have done twenty-five two-pound cards … or ten fiver cards or?—”
He cuts off, turning to speak to someone on his left before grinning back at the screen.
“Lee isn’t even here yet. Would you believe it?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, apparently, he’s meeting us in a bit, but anyway—what happened with your sister? Did she sort out the money?”
I close my eyes, inhaling slowly, then looking back at Mike.
“No. She wouldn’t see me. I saw Greg, though, told him I didn’t want drama. All I wanted was my money back and, given his reaction, I don’t think he knew about it. Which makes me even more annoyed because I want to know what the hell she did with my money.”
“What?” Mike says. “He didn’t know?”
“He had no idea.”
“So, what now?” he says. “Do you need me to pay her a visit? ”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not an extortionist.”
“But I can be, for you.” He winks, sending a ripple of something through my body. “Honestly, though, it’s no trouble. I’m back in a few days … need to tell Mam what’s going on, since I told Kelly and?—”
I gasp. Cutting Mike off.
“What did she say?”
“Yeah, all good.” He looks away again, then nods firmly. “I’ve been summoned, Kitch. But I’ll see you when I’m home, yeah?”
“Sure.”
“Promise? Because … well, I—I miss you.”
“Are you sure it’s not the beer talking?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.
“Nah, I do.” His lip tug into a smile and my heart squeezes.
“Miss you, too. But have fun, yeah?”
Then he does this ridiculous show of kissing the camera.
I probably would have been cringing if it were anyone else.
But it’s Mike.
And Mike isn’t just anyone else anymore.