Alright, so there was this bloke named Richard Willoughby, proper loaded, lived in this massive estate just outside Manchester. Had everything money could buyposh cars, a fancy house, more stuff than he knew what to do with. But deep down, he was proper lonely, you know? Sixty years old and never had a family. Women only ever cared about his bank balance, and hed started regretting never trying for something real.
One evening, driving through Manchester to shake off the loneliness, he spotted this woman digging through a skip near a Tesco. She had wild, tangled hair and skinny arms, but there was this fierce look about herlike she wasnt just surviving, she was fighting. Something about her caught his eye.
Before he could second-guess himself, he rolled down the window. “You okay there? Need any help?”
She froze, eyeing him like he might be trouble. For a second, he thought shed bolt, but then she wiped her hands on her ripped jeans and said, “Can you?”
“Reckon so,” Richard said, getting out of his car, though he wasnt even sure why. “Fancy somewhere warm for the night?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No charity.”
“Not charity,” he said, though he couldnt think of a better word. “Just a place to kip. No strings.”
After a long pause, she nodded. “One night. Im Lydia.”
They drove back to his estate in silence. She sat with her arms crossed, staring out the window. When they arrived, he showed her the converted garagesmall but cosy, with a fridge full of food. “Make yourself at home,” he said.
“Ta,” she muttered before shutting the door.
Over the next few days, Lydia stuck around. Sometimes they ate together. She was tough on the outside, but there was something fragile underneath. Maybe it was the loneliness in her eyesthe same kind he saw in the mirror.
One night over fish and chips, she opened up. “Used to be an artist,” she said quietly. “Had a little studio, did a few exhibitions then my divorce happened. Husband ran off with some younger bird, kicked me out. Lost everything.”
“Sorry,” Richard said, and he meant it.
She shrugged, but her eyes gave her away. “Salright. Old news.”
The more time they spent together, the more he looked forward to their chats. Her sharp wit cut through the quiet of his empty house, and bit by bit, that hollow feeling inside him started to fade.
But then one afternoon, everything went sideways. He went into the garage looking for a bike pump and froze. Dozens of paintings were spread across the floortwisted, grotesque portraits of *him*. One had him chained up, another with bloody eyes, and in the cornera painting of him in a coffin.
His stomach dropped. Was this how she saw him? After everything?
That night at dinner, he couldnt hold it in. “Lydia, what the hell is this? Those paintingschains, blood, a *coffin*? You think Im some kind of monster?”
She went pale. “Didnt want you to see those.”
“Well, I did,” he snapped. “Is that really what you think of me?”
“No,” she whispered. “I was just angry. Youve got everything, and I lost so much. The paintings werent about *you*they were about my pain. Had to get it out somehow.”
He wanted to understand, but the images haunted him. “Think its best if you go,” he said quietly.
Her eyes widened. “Please, just”
“No,” he cut in. “Its done.”
Next morning, he helped her pack and drove her to a shelter in town. Before she left, he slipped her a few hundred quid. She hesitated, but took it.
Weeks passed, and the guilt didnt fade. It wasnt just the paintingsit was what had been between them before. Something he hadnt felt in years.
Then one day, a package turned up on his doorstep. Another paintingbut this time, it was different. Peaceful. A side of himself hed never seen. Inside was a note with Lydias number.
His hands shook as he dialled.
“Hello?” Her voice was cautious.
“Lydia, its me. Got your paintingits beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she said after a pause. “Wasnt sure if youd like it. Thought you deserved better than the others.”
“You dont owe me anything,” he said. “Im sorry for how I reacted.”
“Im sorry for what I painted,” she replied. “Really wasnt about you.”
“Dont apologise,” he said. “When I saw the new one I thought maybe we could start fresh?”
“What dyou mean?”
“Dunno. Maybe dinner? Proper catch-up?”
She hesitated, then softly said, “Id like that. Really would.”
They agreed to meet in a few days. Lydia told him shed used the money he gave her to buy new clothes and land a job. Even found a flat.
When he hung up, he realised he was smiling. Maybe it was a new beginningfor both of them.
