**Diary Entry: A Stranger’s Shadow**
After work, Emily stopped by the shopping centre. The head accountant’s anniversary was coming up, and her department had tasked her with picking a gift. She’d spotted a few options, snapped photos on her phone—tomorrow, her colleagues would decide. As she rode the escalator down to the ground floor, she longed for the quiet of the outside, away from the bustle.
*”Emily?!”* A woman’s voice cut through the noise.
She turned left, scanning the faces of those riding up—strangers, all of them.
*”Emily!”* The call came again.
Glancing over her shoulder, she spotted a girl with fiery red hair, struggling to descend the ascending steps. *”Wait for me downstairs! Don’t leave!”* the girl shouted.
Emily stepped off the escalator and waited. The garish red hair vanished briefly at the top before reappearing, rushing downward as the girl elbowed past startled shoppers. The colour was so bright it nearly obscured her face.
*”Lottie?!”* Emily gasped, recognising her stepsister.
*”Surprise! Been wandering town hoping I’d bump into you. Knew it’d happen eventually. Let’s grab a coffee—there’s a café here somewhere.”*
*”How long have you been in London?”*
*”Two weeks. God, I’m so glad I found you,”* Lottie gushed, sincerity dripping like honey.
They settled into a booth. Emily studied her: the red hair, spider-leg lashes clumped with mascara, lips painted the same violent shade. Pretty in a doll-like way, but childish—her outfit didn’t help. A pleated mini-skirt, opaque tights with knee-high socks, chunky trainers. A denim jacket hung open over a crop top. At twenty, she dressed like a teen.
People stared. *”You look amazing,”* Lottie said, just as a waitress handed them menus. She ordered pizza, cake, and coffee; Emily just the latter.
*”Starving. You’re lucky—eat whatever, never gain an ounce. Me? Always on some brutal diet,”* Lottie sighed.
*”Really?”* Emily raised a sceptical brow. Lottie had always been scrawny.
*”You never met my mum. Weighed a tonne—why Dad left. Good genes you’ve got. D’you reckon they do beer here?”*
*”Ask, but I’m driving,”* Emily said.
*”You’ve got a car? Brilliant! Listen, any jobs going at your place? Still hunting.”*
*”How’ve you survived two weeks here, then?”*
*”Nicked Dad’s savings,”* Lottie giggled. *”He’d just piss it away anyway. After you left, he got worse—lost his job, odd cash-in-hand gigs. Then shacked up with some dinner lady who smuggled leftovers. Went off the rails proper.”*
Emily listened, stunned. Not that she was surprised—she’d never liked Lottie’s dad. Mum had said she was just jealous when she’d moved him in, along with Lottie. Emily had been in sixth form, prepping for uni.
They’d clashed instantly. Lottie stole her clothes, left them stained. Mum always took her side: *”You’ve got plenty—don’t be stingy. Lottie never had a mother.”* Emily knew Mum just hated rows, but it stung. Then came the diagnosis. Four months later, she was gone.
Her stepdad expected Emily to work after school. Instead, she fled to Manchester, squirrelling away lunch money for years. She studied, lived in halls, worked evenings at Burger King. Graduated, landed a proper job, clawed her way to a flat. Met Oliver at work—he’d helped her buy a second-hand Ford.
*”What qualifications d’you have?”* Emily asked, dragging herself back.
Lottie scoffed. *”Come off it. Barely scraped GCSEs, worked a newsagent’s till. Dad went proper off the deep end—sacked for turning up pissed. Why d’you think I bolted? Found some alkie bird to enable him. No future there.”*
Emily smirked. True—a newsagent cashier’s prospects were grim.
*”What role d’you imagine, then?”*
*”I’d make a cracking secretary. Your boss young?”*
*”Mid-forties. Married. Secretary’s already in post.”*
*”Shame. Won’t scrub loos, mind,”* Lottie said, eyeing the arriving pizza like a wolf.
*”If you need cash, does it matter if you’re filing or mopping? I’ll ask around,”* Emily lied. Letting Lottie near her workplace? Like inviting a fox into the henhouse.
*”What about your bloke?”* Lottie nodded at Emily’s bare ring finger. *”Not married?”*
*”Engaged. Two years together.”* A lie—they weren’t living together. Oliver’s mum was ill; he wouldn’t saddle Emily with that.
Lottie wrinkled her nose. *”Thought you were clever. If he hasn’t proposed in a year, he won’t. First twelve months or never.”*
*”Since when are you the expert?”* Emily glanced at her dainty diamond ring.
Lottie followed her gaze. *”His? Bit plain.”*
It stung. Lottie loved gaudy things. Emily adored the ring—delicate, with a solitaire. Oliver had bought it in Amsterdam, paired with diamond studs. At work, colleagues always noticed. Wasn’t that love? But she didn’t argue.
*”It’s a diamond,”* she said.
*”So he’s loaded?”* Lottie froze, mid-bite.
*”Not at all. He just loves me.”*
Lottie gave her a strange look, then dropped her eyes.
*”You? Seeing anyone?”* Emily countered.
*”Shopping around. Lived with one…”* She sighed. *”Won’t settle for scraps. Want a rich bloke—flat, car, the lot.”*
*Ah. Hunting a sugar daddy.* In that get-up? Unlikely. Emily sipped her coffee, eager to leave.
*”I should go,”* she said, flagging the waitress. Lottie didn’t protest her footing the bill.
*”You’ll ask about jobs?”* Lottie pressed.
*”Yeah.”*
Outside, the cold bit. Emily remembered fleeing home after Mum’s funeral—stepdad expected her to fund his booze. She’d hoarded bus fare for years. Now, she owned a flat. Oliver had helped.
*”You renting?”* Lottie asked.
*”Mortgage.”*
*”Blimey. Can I crash a bit? Just till I find work.”*
Emily stiffened. *”Where’ve you been staying?”*
*”Mate’s sofa.”* Lottie looked away. *”Wanted out ages. He’s a bore.”*
Letting Lottie in meant no privacy with Oliver. But her puppy-dog eyes worked. *”Fine. I’ve a fold-out in the kitchen.”*
Lottie beamed, scrambling into the car.
For two weeks, she lazed about, then vanished nightly, reeking of smoke and booze. *Club-hopping for men,* Emily guessed. No job materialised.
*”Any luck?”* Emily finally asked.
*”Was gonna ask you,”* Lottie shot back.
*”Only cleaning jobs—you said no. I’d have told you otherwise.”*
*”Sick of me? Kicking me out?”*
*”No, but I like my space. Clubs cost money—use it for rent.”*
*”Lads buy my drinks,”* Lottie shrugged.
*”Figures.”*
Oliver complained too. No intimacy with his mum next door. Then Emily found stains on her favourite dress. Lottie swore she’d not touched it. Liar.
*”Burger King took me once. But she’d rather mooch,”* Emily vented.
*”Let me talk to her,”* Oliver offered.
That evening, Lottie—dressed in shorts and a skin-tight top—answered the door.
*”Blimey,”* Oliver muttered.
Dinner was torture. Lottie batted her lashes, “accidentally” brushed against him. Emily excused herself. Then—a shriek. She rushed back.
*”Enough. Your act doesn’t work on me. Fed up leeching off Emily? Jobs exist—you just can’t be arsed. Or is no bloke biting?”* Oliver gripped Lottie’s wrists.
*”Ow! Let go!”*
*”What’s—?”* Emily froze.
*”He attacked me!”* Lottie whimpered.
*”Bollocks. You came onto me.Oliver tightened his grip and said, “Pack your things tonight—or I’ll toss them out myself, and you can fish your knickers out of the hedges.”
