“Stop playing the fool. Where did Mum hide the ring? Or did you take it? Spit it out!” Paul gripped Liz’s shoulders painfully.
Liz had never been what you’d call pretty. When her grandmother saw her newborn granddaughter in the hospital, she asked, “What’s her name going to be?”
“Ellie,” her mum cooed tenderly.
“Ellies are supposed to be lovely, dear. No offence, but this one won’t be. Call her Elizabeth. That was your great-grandmother’s name,” Gran sighed.
In nursery, all the other girls were doll-like—big-eyed, rosy-cheeked, with plump lips and bouncing blonde curls. Liz, meanwhile, was gawky and plain, with mousy straight hair that crackled with static and stuck up like she’d been electrocuted.
“She’ll have a hard time with looks like that. Doubt she’ll ever marry. I told you to pick a bloke with better genes. But no, you wouldn’t listen,” Gran muttered, wrestling Liz’s limp hair into flimsy braids that barely held their ribbons.
“Mum, give it a rest! She’ll grow into it,” Liz’s mother insisted.
By twelve, Liz hadn’t improved. All angles and awkwardness, she towered over her classmates, earning taunts of “lamppost” from the boys. She withdrew, buried herself in books, and stopped making friends.
Come sixth form, she skipped the Christmas ball—the dress she’d bought that summer no longer fit.
“Why are you home?” her mum asked, returning from work.
“Why did you even have me? Just so I could suffer? The boys call me ‘lamppost,’ no one asks me to dance. I’m hideous!” Liz wailed.
“Sweetheart, even pretty people don’t always have it easy. What can we do? Nature dealt the cards. Looks aren’t everything,” her mum soothed.
“Then what is? Money? You can buy anything with money, even beauty. But we don’t even have that. I’ll never marry, never have kids. I won’t doom a daughter to this!” Liz snapped.
“People fall for looks but stay for the heart,” her mum sighed.
“You’ve said I’ve got a rotten temper. How could I *not*? When everyone treats you like you’ve got the plague—” Liz’s eyes brimmed. “Why didn’t you pick a better-looking bloke to be my dad?”
After A-levels, Liz could’ve gone to uni, but she chose nursing school. As a child hospitalised with pneumonia, the nurses had seemed like angels in white—no hair visible under their caps. Fewer blokes around to tease her, too.
She graduated top of her class. Patients adored her. She gave painless jabs and actually *listened* to their grumbles about ailments and ungrateful children. The geriatric ward was her usual post, but younger patients landed there sometimes.
One, a thirty-year-old named Rob, loitered by the nurses’ station, showering Liz with attention. He even kissed her in the supply room and promised a cinema date after discharge. Weeks passed—no call, no Rob. Liz nearly tracked him down.
“Don’t be daft. He’s married,” the head nurse shook her head.
“You’re just jealous,” Liz huffed.
“Check his file. ‘Married’ is right there, with his wife’s contact number.”
“But she never visited!” Liz protested.
“Exactly why he flirted with you. You bought him oranges, brought home-cooked meals. His wife’s stuck with two kids—youngest just a month old.”
“That’s in his file too?” Liz’s voice trembled.
“He lives next door. I know his wife. If I’d thought it serious, I’d have spoken up sooner. But I reckon he got cold feet. Watch yourself, love. Oh, don’t cry. Blokes fancy nurses—we’re good at caring, giving jabs when needed.” The head nurse hugged her.
An elegant older patient, Margaret, never had visitors. No oranges, no homemade cordial by her bedside.
“Why does no one visit?” Liz finally asked.
“Husband died ten years back. Son lives abroad—family, job. No need to bother him,” Margaret smiled.
“But your health—how will you manage alone?”
“I’ll manage, dear.”
“Let me help. I can pop in, check your blood pressure, give your jabs. It’s no trouble.”
After discharge, Liz kept her word—cooking, shopping, cleaning. She loved the spacious flat.
“My husband was military—a general,” Margaret said proudly over tea. “We moved from base to base. Finally got this place, but he barely enjoyed it.”
“Why doesn’t your son live here?”
“His wife wanted to split it into two flats. I refused—done with cramped quarters. We argued. My husband took it hard… his heart gave out.”
She lowered her voice. “Years ago, he helped a high-ranking official—won’t say who—who gifted him a ring with a rare diamond. After he died, my son demanded it. I refused. My husband meant to donate it to a museum.”
Margaret fetched it. “Go on, hold it.”
“Heavy, isn’t it?” Liz marveled.
“A man’s ring. He never had it appraised—didn’t want to know if it was fake. Said if it was real, collectors would come sniffing. Should’ve donated it ages ago.”
Liz visited daily. Once, Margaret showed her a bundle of burial clothes.
“Your son’s contact details?” Liz pressed.
“None. My husband tore them up.”
Then, the worst happened—Margaret had a stroke. Liz found her too late. With no way to reach the son, Liz arranged the funeral herself, using money tucked in the burial clothes.
Two weeks later, a neighbour called: the son had arrived. Liz rushed over.
“Why didn’t you visit? Call? Leave an address?” she demanded.
“We always fought. Mum hated my wife. She was right—I divorced her too late.” He wept. “You buried her. Thank you.”
“You should go,” Liz said.
“Stay. Please.” He clasped her hand.
She did. Over tea, Paul poured out his regrets—too late to apologise, to make amends. Liz pitied him.
She fell hard. Rushed from work to him, ignoring rearranged furniture, rumpled linens—his flat, his rules. Paul lit up when she arrived, kissing her, pulling her to bed.
Love softened Liz’s edges, brightened her eyes. Paul promised renovations, then marriage. Liz believed him. Her mum warned her, but Liz was starved for happiness.
One evening, stepping out of the shower, towel forgotten, she overheard Paul on the phone:
“Just a bit longer. She needs to trust me… Don’t be daft, there’s nothing between us. You should see her—scrawny, plain… Six months, the flat’s mine, and we’re set.”
Liz’s skin burned. She dressed hurriedly.
“Who called?” she asked.
“Hmm? Oh, the builder.” Paul’s lie was smooth.
She knew then—he wanted the ring.
“I’m off. Feeling ill,” she forced a smile, coughed for effect.
“Get well soon,” he said, barely glancing up.
For days, Liz moped. Paul hadn’t divorced—he’d schemed to find the ring. She raced back to the flat.
Inside, chaos—drawers ransacked, groceries spilled. Paul was tearing through books.
“What are you doing?”
He spun. “You said you weren’t coming. Found it yet?” His tone turned sharp. “Where’s the ring?”
“What ring?” Liz feigned ignorance.
Paul advanced. His grip bit her shoulders. “Don’t play dumb. Where is it?”
“She never told me!” Liz winced.
He released her. “I’ll find it. Leave the keys and go.”
As he took a call, Liz spotted the general’s portrait—hanging crooked. She acted fast, pried a small packet taped behind it, and fled.
On the bus, tears blurred her vision. She’d fulfil Margaret’s wish—donate the ring.
The museum director confirmed its rarity. “Needs expert appraisal in London.”
“Take it,” Liz urged, recounting Margaret’s story.
Done. The ring was safe. Paul and his wife wouldn’t get it—they had the flat.
On her way to work, Liz steeled herself:
“Enough. No more trust. Maybe adopt someday. No passing on my face or bad luck. Plenty of time—I’m only twenty-eight.”
At the hospital, patients waited—ready to share joys and sorrows with the nurse who gave painless jabs.