I am now looking back on those days when I was thirtyseven, long after the dust had settled. Ten years had passed since I finally signed the papers that ended my marriage to James. He had been unfaithful, and I never found it in myself to forgive him. He had moved on, taking Poppy, a girl with a name you hardly hear outside England, into his life. She soon found herself with child, gave birth to a boy they called Thomas, and within months James married her. From that point I made a point of not speaking to him again, so I knew little of what went on behind their closed doors.
My own affairs were steady. I earned a comfortable salary, and just a week before the incident I had sold the old cottage I inherited from my grandmother in the Cotswolds, converting it into a tidy sum of pounds. It seemed I had more than enough to think about buying a proper carthough I still needed a lesson behind the wheelbut I was not in any hurry to part with my money.
Then, out of the blue, James turned up at my flat in Manchester. We had not seen each other for years, so his sudden appearance startled me. He launched straight into the matter that had driven him here. Thomas has been diagnosed with cancer, he said, his voice tight. The treatment will cost a fortune, and we are short of cash. Ive come to ask you for help. He added that neither he nor Poppy had the means to pay the bills.
I listened, my mind already ticking over the amount I had just realised I possessed. He seemed to think the timing of my house sale was meant for him. He hinted that, if I could spare a decent sum, perhaps I could ease his sons suffering. I wondered, though, whether I would lend the same if I were the one in need; my doubt was clear.
Do you have any idea how desperate we are? he pleaded, as if he had ever paused to consider my feelings. He reminded me of the day he had swapped me for his new love without a second thought, of the divorce where we split everything down the middle, and of his claim that the money would be useful for his new family. He even suggested I should return the flat to himthough I had bought it before we ever said I do. That had saved me then. Now he stood before me, demanding cash and speaking of his own emotions as if they mattered to me.
He promised to provide all the paperwork to prove his story, but I told him I needed none of it. I would not give it a second thought, even if he swore he would repay me later. The child still needed costly rehabilitation, and I doubted I would see a single penny returned.
When I asked, Why not take a loan from the bank? he raised his voice, begged on his knees, and tried to shame me into compliance. I refused. I had no desire to humiliate him further, but I also had no wish to see him again. He had betrayed me once; that was enough. He warned he would return once I had calmed down and thought things over, as if I had any reason to reconsider. There was nothing left to mull over.
Some might say I have no conscience, that I am selfish for wanting to keep my money to myself. Perhaps that is true, but after all these years I prefer to manage my own pounds and not share them with those who have shown me nothing but deceit. The conversation left a bitter taste, yet I do not intend to aid them. Let it be a lesson, a small payment for the sins they have committed.
