ELLIE
Greg is waiting for me when I leave the salon on Wednesday afternoon.
At first, I mistake him for an ill-dressed traffic warden, eager to hand me an unwarranted parking ticket.
But as I get closer, I recognise the receding hairline—not that I’ve got anything against thinning hair on a man, but Greg wears his denial in the tune of a hairstyle.
I’ve got no idea what he wants, but I doubt it’s anything I’ll want to hear. He’s leaning against my car in such a way, it’ll be impossible to hop into the driver’s seat and speed off unnoticed.
For a second, I consider abandoning my car and taking the bus home instead. But then he spots me, lifts a hand in an awkward wave and— brilliant —I’m left with no choice but to talk to him.
“Have you got a minute?” he asks.
Instead of answering him, I make my way to the rear of the car, popping open the boot and slinging my bags inside. I linger, searching for a reason to avoid giving him even a minute, but come up with nothing.
Nothing.
Damn it all.
“Ellie?” Greg straightens up and makes his way over to me, standing on the pavement right next to the rear driver’s side.
Definitely no chance of a getaway now.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I—I wanted to give you this.”
He holds out a cheque, the creamy off-white paper practically glowing against the dimming evening light.
“A cheque?” I say.
“Yeah.” He thrusts it towards me, his hand shaking as I take it from him .
I run my eyes over the writing, trying to work out what the hell is going on here … aside from the fact people rarely use cheques these days, he doesn’t owe me any money. Kathryn does.
Pay Eleanor Kitchener four thousand pounds only. Signed G Jamison.
“Four grand?” I say, wrinkling my nose.
“Yeah. I mean … I know it’s not the full seven, but it’s the best I can do right now.”
“The best—why are you giving me a cheque for four grand? It’s not you who owes me. It’s Kathryn.”
Greg rubs the back of his neck. “Kathryn doesn’t have much in the way of spare cash at the moment. I’m paying you back—well, as much as I can—on her behalf.”
“On her behalf?” I ask, my voice shaking.
I glance down at the cheque again before looking back at him.
Surely this is a joke.
“Yes. See, I’ve recently learnt that…” Greg shuffles on the spot, burying his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“I’ve recently learnt that Kathryn has had some commitment issues, so we need to take some time away.
We’re trying to rebuild. To move forward.
We can’t have people digging things up or dragging us backwards—whether that’s you or Bettsy. ”
The coin drops into the slot.
Of course … this whole situation has Mike’s name written all over it.
“Ah.”
“He came to see me on Monday. Came to tell me about Kathryn and … well, I guess I’m not ready to say his name out loud just yet.”
My brain begins to piece it all together.
“So … you know about Kathryn and Rick?” I ask, more to hear it confirmed than anything else .
But the way Greg winces answers that question for me. No words required.
“You know and you’re staying with her?” I say.
“I’ve spoken to Kathryn, and she assures me he coerced her into a sexual relationship. It was purely physical and?—”
Poor, naive Greg.
I catch his eye and see it: pain and sorrow.
“Coercing her? What the hell does that mean?”
But Greg ignores my question, reverting to the topic of the cheque I’ve got clutched in my hand instead.
“Look, the main thing is, I’m paying you back,” he says.
“But—but that doesn’t explain where it went in the first place?” I say. “If you funded the start-up…”
Greg sighs as he looks towards the pavement.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re getting your money back, aren’t you?”
“That’s beside the point,” I say.
But when he doesn’t look at me, I understand. And honestly, I’m wondering how I overlooked it for so long.
“So that’s where my money went? Funding an affair? Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Glad to know Kathryn?—”
She wasn’t out on appointments or checking in on clients too sick to come in or looking at venues. She was playing house with Rick—with my seven grand burning a hole in her pocket.
And poor Greg is financing the aftermath.
“Please, Ellie, stop,” Greg says, cutting me off. “Cash the cheque and I’ll try to get the rest to you … after the wedding.”
“After the wedding?” I say, my voice several notches louder than it was a second ago.
“El—”
“You’re still marrying her after that? After how she treated you? ”
Greg looks crestfallen, like his world’s already ended and all he has left are the fragments to cling to.
“I love her, Ellie,” he says, his voice grave .
“But you don’t love yourself?” I ask.
Greg looks at me, his eyes meeting mine for a second before he looks away.
“I’m not perfect, Ellie. Far from, really. We all make mistakes, and I forgive Kathryn.”
“Well, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought,” I say.
Greg doesn’t respond to that, but he looks at me again. Holding my gaze for longer than necessary.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” he says, after an extended period of silence—only the passing traffic to break the quiet.
I blink, unsure whether to scoff or brace for more bullshit.
“For?”
“Lying to you about the certificate.”
“What?” I say.
“Best speak to Bettsy,” he says. “Anyway, I wish you and him all the happiness in the world. I’d be grateful if you could return the favour.”
I want to ask him what he means. I want to demand answers … but before I can even open my mouth to reply, he turns and hurries along the pavement. Disappearing around the corner.
And it’s goodbye, Greg.