Late at night in the supermarket.
One evening, long after most people had gone home, Irene was slumped at the checkout, tears in her eyes, worn out from exhaustion, frustration, and loneliness. The sleepless night hadnt helped. Her neighbour, Jacka notorious drunkwas at it again on the other side of the wall, making a racket with his drinking buddies. Even the police had given up trying to shut him up.
Irene wiped her eyes and glanced around. A handsome young man in a stylish coat was walking towards her till. For the past month, this tall, dark-haired bloke had been coming to her checkout to pay for his pizza and fruit juice. “Probably a loner,” she thought. “Some girls gonna be lucky with a bloke like that.”
The customer, pizza in hand, flashed her a smile and handed over a fifty-pound note but then hesitated. “Hang on, Ill get some change so I dont hassle you.” He paid and left.
There was still an hour before the supermarket closed. The few stragglers tossed their shopping into trolleys without much enthusiasm. Yawning despite herself, Irene silently cursed Jackjust as he stumbled in, scruffy and covered in bruises, clutching two bottles of posh vodka. With a mocking grin, he shoved a crisp fifty-pound note at her. “Great, another all-nighter,” Irene thought irritably.
“Jack, did you rob someone?” she snapped. His bleary eyes flickered between bruises. “Why would I nick it?”
Out of habit, Irene held the note up to the light, running her fingers over itthen froze. “Hold on, Jack somethings not right. We need to check this.” She fed it into the counterfeit detector and whispered, “Whered you get this? Its fake!”
Jack went stiff as a board, clutching the bottles to his chest like they were a life raft. Then, quick as anything, he slapped the booze onto the counter. “Check these too,” he said hopefully, pushing forward two more fifties.
“These as well. I have to call the police!”
“Irene, I swear, I found em outside the shopsomeone dropped their wallet, and I just took the cash. Dont report me” the drunk begged.
She was enjoying his panic, ready to admit it was all a jokethe notes were real. But before she could, Jack, convinced he was holding fifteen grand in fake cash, bolted for the bin to destroy the “evidence.” He tore the notes up with grim satisfaction and stormed out.
Irene was stunned. What had she just done? Then again he deserved it.
“Excuse me,” came a familiar voice. The pizza guy was back. “I bought a pizza earlier”
“I remember,” Irene said warily, “no change.”
“Not that I lost my wallet on my way to the car. Total airhead moment.”
“Was there much in it?” she asked, thinking of Jack.
“Moneys not the issue. Id scribbled an important phone number on a noteif someone finds it, they can keep the cash, just get me the number. Heres my card.”
“Right,” Irene nodded.
Her mood soured. For the rest of her shift, she agonised over how to help the pizza enthusiast. Finally, she grabbed a bag and dashed to the bin, emptying its contents.
Back home, gloved up, she sifted through the shredded notes, cursing her stupid prank.
“And himwhat a scatterbrain. Probably some girls number,” she thought bitterly, eyes stinging. She found the digits on two torn pieces.
“But how do I get it to him? Cant call from my phonehe might ring back. What then? Explain the fake money fiasco?”
She pulled out his business card: Alexander Lawrence, work and personal numbers. She could call him from another phone or just text. Maybe ask the elderly neighbour? But what if Alexander called back and she got confused, remembering Irene had been there? What would he think? That shed kept the cash but sent the number anyway?
Then it hit herthe caretakers phone. He wouldnt recognise her voice later. And if he did well, shed make sure he couldnt. She headed for the wardrobe
Minutes later, a round figure waddled out of the buildingbundled in a coat, scarf, hat, the lot. A proper sight. This mystery blob shuffled off, zigzagging like a spy, untilaha! The perfect mark: an unsuspecting middle-aged man at the corner.
“Mate, can I borrow your phone? Mines dead,” Irene mumbled, flashing a fiver. The caretaker handed it over without a word. She typed out the mystery womans number to Alexander, sighed in relief, muttered a thanks, and scurried home.
Alexander couldnt sleep. He wasnt fussed about the moneyjust that fleeting moment earlier when hed bumped into his old mate, Victor. Five years since theyd last met. “Call me!” Victor had yelled from a packed bus, rattling off his number. Alexander, phone left at work, had scribbled it on a fifty. Now, hed lost itand the chance to reconnect.
To distract himself, he thought of Irenethe checkout girl with the wavy hair, sky-blue eyes, and warm smile. A month of small talk, and he still hadnt asked her out. Maybe tomorrow
Thenping! A text. Just a number. Victors! If the cash had been found too, the sender deserved thanks.
“Hi. Cheers for this. Keep the moneyits a gift.”
A gruff voice answered, “Gift? No understand. I caretaker.” Click.
Whoever sent it, no matter. Tomorrow, hed tell Irene. Shed seemed down last nightmaybe thisd cheer her up. Smiling, he drifted off.
Irene cried half the nightover her messy life, poor Jack, and Alexander, forever out of reach.
Next evening, Alexander bounded up to her till. “Irene! Brilliant newssomeone sent the number, I rang my mate” He stopped. “Wait howd they get my number? I only gave my card to you.”
Irene froze.
“So it was you? You found the cash and sent the number?”
Before she could answer, he turned on his heel.
“Thats it. He thinks Im a thief. Im done,” she panicked, grabbing her bag and sprinting after him. “Alexander, wait!!”
Shoppers gawked as the flustered girl caught up, babbling, then yanked two torn fifty bits from her bagVictors number scrawled on them.
A beat of silence. Thenlaughter.
Weeks later, the Lawrences tied the knot, Irene swinging between giggles and happy tears. Even Jack enjoyed the open bar.
