BETTSY
As much as I want to let it rest, I can’t. Greg may not believe Ellie, but he’s got no reason not to believe me. I mean, if anything, it’s my neck on the line because I’m the one who has to sit on the bench next to Langer knowing I ratted him out.
Greg’s office is on the high-street, only a few doors down from a derelict looking ‘House of Kathryn’ and a short taxi ride from Ellie’s house, which I took as soon as she left for work; I dug Greg’s business card from my wallet and made it over here before I could talk myself out of it.
I have one day here before I need to head back home for a practice filled week and the last thing I wanted to do was to spend it in a stuffy solicitors’ office, but here I am.
“Can I help you?”
I’ve barely closed the door behind me when the blonde behind the front desk directs her attention towards me. She flicks her eyes up and down, lingering on my hockey jumper before she surveys my hat.
I whip it off my head, setting it down on the counter and leaning in to reply.
“I’m here to see Greg Jamison,” I say, forcing my formal ‘phone voice’. “I don’t have an appointment, but I need to talk to him briefly.”
“He’s in a meeting,” she says.
“Well, I’m sure he can squeeze in a quick tête-à-tête with me once he’s done,” I say with a smile. “I can wait.”
I don’t give her a chance to turn me away. I grab my cap and move over to the hard-looking tub chairs next to the window.
Sitting in the grey one, I reach for a magazine from a pile on the glass table to my left.
Railway Timetable Digest—jeez .
I thumb through the pages, more out of curiosity than anything, because there’s no way there’s a whole magazine dedicated to timetables.
But ten minutes later, I’m intrigued, my brow furrowed as I try to work out if a thirty-five-hour train ride from Moscow to Nice would be worth it.
Spoiler: probably not, but I’d do it anyway just to say I had.
A throat clears in the distance and I pry my eyes away from the Japan segment to see a mousey-haired guy in a cheap suit glaring at me.
“Can I help you?” he says.
I toss the magazine aside and get to my feet, striding over to who I can only assume is Greg.
“Michael Betts,” I say, holding out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He cocks a brow, dipping his head to stare at my out-stretched hand.
“Not a hand-shaker? I get it, don’t worry. Anyway?—”
“Is this about the marriage stuff? Because I told Ellie she’d need to enlist the help of a family lawyer on a formal basis. It’s not my bag,” he says.
“Actually, it’s not,” I say. “It’s about marriage stuff, sure, but—” I look around, spotting the blonde pretending not to eavesdrop. “—is there somewhere we could go for a quick chat?”
He exhales in an over-dramatic fashion. “I’m a little busy right now.”
“Trust me … you’re going to want to have this conversation in private.”
He studies me for a moment, eyes narrow. Then he nods. A single nod and a flick of his head towards a small office to his left.
“Did you know Japan’s bullet trains are so punctual their average delay is under a minute?” I say as I follow him inside.
“Excuse me? ”
“Never mind—look … there’s no easy way for me to say this, but bro-code dictates I tell you what I know…
but since we’re not actually ‘bros’ in that sense, I’m not going to sugar-coat it.
” I pause, waiting for him to give me permission to continue, I guess, but he stares blankly at me.
“Right, well … your wife-to-be Kathryn is screwing your best man. Rick Langdon, just to be clear.”
He glares at me, unblinking, then he scoffs, a half-laugh that’s awkward and dry.
But I keep my expression stable, showing him that this is definitely not a joke.
“I’m sorry but what?” he says.
“I—”
“You come in here, tell me this and expect me to—who the fuck are you?” he says, his forehead glowing red.
“I’m … Michael Betts, but my friends call me Bettsy.”
Apparently, that was not the answer he was looking for.
“I know who you are … but… what the fuck is your problem? Ellie’s ruined Kathryn’s business, so you think you can come in here and ruin my?—”
“You’re kidding right? Kathryn mauled Ellie’s scalp. She ripped her hair out, for Christ’s sake. If anyone’s got a problem … it sure as hell isn’t me.”
“What the fuck?”
“Oh, another secret she’s keeping from you, then? Looks like she’s a conniving b?—”
Greg’s features tense. “Shut your mouth,” he says.
“Mate, look,” I hold my hands up in surrender. “I honestly don’t give a shit about you, nor Langer, nor Kathryn, for that matter. But I do care about Ellie … a lot. And I’ll tell you something for free, if Kathryn touches a single hair on Ellie’s head again, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
Greg scowls, muttering something under his breath before he turns away .
“Now I’ve done a nice thing here today. It may not seem like it now, but one day you’ll thank me for it.
I’ve told you what I know … now you can do whatever you want with that information.
Oh, and while I’ve got you … if you could write me a cheque for that seven grand Kathryn owes Ellie, that’d be great. ”
Greg turns back towards me. “I don’t know what Ellie’s told you, but Kathryn doesn’t owe her any money. I funded the start-up.”
“You funded the salon? So why the fuck does Ellie think she funded it? I mean … Kathryn isn’t the sort of person who’d lie about something like that, is she, Greg? Getting two lots of seven grand and?—”
“I—” His face drops as realisation dawns on him. “Shut the fuck up.”
I’ve hit a nerve. I can tell. But I can’t back down.
“Hey, all I want is the money back. That’s it.”
But he’s not listening. He’s retreating to his desk, pulling open draws and rummaging through paperwork. Piles and piles of it.
“Oh … fuck,” he says, flattening out a stack of papers—credit card bills by the look of it. “She told me her card was stolen but?—”
I don’t have a clue what’s going on. No idea at all, but what I’m guessing is whatever Kathryn told Greg she did with his money isn’t actually what she did with his money.
I step closer, my nosiness getting the better of me, but all I can see is line upon line of transactions.
Hotels. Hotels. And more hotels.
“Yeah, that was the hotel we stayed at for the Team?—”
Greg looks up at me, his eyes red and blotchy with the threat of tears.
Damn, I’m feeling sorry for the guy. He looks like his heart has been ripped out and all I can do is stand here and watch his demise .
But it is probably better that I told him, right? I mean, if it was me … I’d want to know.
“Right. Well, yeah … look Greg, I’m sorry I had to be the one to have told you, but no one deserves to be treated like this. No one. I’m sorry that it happened to you.”
I turn to leave, taking a step towards the door when Greg stops me. His hand resting on my shoulder.
“Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“I … thanks, I guess. I mean. You’re right. You don’t owe me anything.”
He turns away and hurries towards a filing cabinet in the corner of the room, pulling open the second drawer and flicking through the tab dividers.
“This is yours,” he says, turning back towards me, handing me a brown envelope. “It’s your wedding certificate.”
“My—”
“I guess I thought it would be funny to see how this played out. Fun to watch Ellie panic … send her on a chase for something that didn’t exist, but—I’m sorry.”
Well, fuck me.
“You really are a prick, you know that, right?”
But he says nothing to that. He can’t. He knows I’m right.
“And I’ll see what I can do about the money. I don’t have a lot of spare cash … I mean… but I’ll see what I can do.”
We stare at each other for a moment, tense air between us. Then I slide the envelope into the pocket of my hoodie and get the hell out of there.