“You see, he’s completely out of control. His grades are slipping, he comes home late…”
Lydia Wilson set down two cups of coffee and slid a plate of biscuits toward her friend. Outside, an October drizzle pattered against the window, but inside, the flat was warm and cosy. Alice, as always, looked immaculate—neatly styled hair, subtle makeup, an elegant dress. At fifty-eight, she knew how to take care of herself.
“Lydia, darling, thank you so much for agreeing to help,” Alice said, lifting her cup with a grateful smile. “Honestly, I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
“Don’t be silly, Alice, we’ve been friends for decades. Of course I’ll help.” Lydia sat across from her, studying her face. “Tell me everything properly. What’s happened with Max?”
Alice sighed and rubbed her temples.
“You see, he’s completely out of control. His grades are slipping, he comes home late, and yesterday I found some pills in his pocket.”
“Good Lord,” Lydia pressed a hand to her chest. “Drugs?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I was terrified. And he won’t explain anything, just snaps at me. Says it’s none of my business.”
Lydia shook her head. She knew Max well—Alice’s grandson, a seventeen-year-old boy left orphaned and living with his grandmother. He’d always been a quiet, polite lad, but lately, he’d turned sullen and withdrawn.
“What do you propose?” Lydia asked.
“I need money for a private investigator,” Alice whispered, barely audible. “To find out who he’s mixing with, where he disappears to. Maybe he’s fallen in with a bad crowd.”
“How much do you need?”
“Three thousand pounds. I know it’s a lot, but I promise I’ll pay you back next month. As soon as my pension comes in.”
Without hesitation, Lydia stood and went to the cupboard where she kept her emergency savings. Alice had been her closest friend for over twenty years. They’d met at work when they were both still married, raising children, making plans. Then life scattered them to different towns, but they’d never lost touch—letters, phone calls, visits.
When Lydia was widowed, it was Alice who had supported her, helped her through the grief. And when tragedy struck Alice—her son and daughter-in-law killed in a car crash, leaving little Max behind—Lydia had rushed to her side, helping arrange the funeral, sorting out custody.
“Here.” Lydia handed her the envelope. “And don’t worry about paying me back. If you need more, just say.”
Alice took it and hugged her tightly.
“You’re the best,” she murmured. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
They sat at the kitchen table for hours, sipping coffee and talking. Alice spoke about the struggles of raising a grandson alone, especially a teenage one. Lydia offered advice, sharing stories of raising her own son.
“How’s Paul, by the way?” Alice asked. “Haven’t seen him in ages.”
“He’s doing well. Lovely family, steady job. Just doesn’t call much—always busy.”
“Ah. They all grow up and scatter, don’t they?”
Alice didn’t leave until evening. Lydia walked her to the lift, said goodbye, and watched the doors close behind her.
The flat fell silent. Lydia washed the dishes, watered the plants on the windowsill, and settled in front of the TV. But she couldn’t focus—her mind kept circling back to Max. Such a good boy, polite, bright. Could he really be mixed up in drugs?
The next day, Lydia went to the GP for a check-up. In the waiting room, she spotted her neighbour, Valerie.
“Lydia, hello,” Valerie greeted her. “How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Oh, fine. A friend visited yesterday—about her grandson.”
“Which friend? The one with the posh car?”
Lydia blinked. Alice *had* arrived in a car, but she’d never mentioned owning one.
“Maybe. How’d you know?”
“Saw her pulling away from your building. Lovely motor—must’ve cost a fortune.”
Lydia frowned. If Alice had a car like that, why borrow money? But then again, maybe it wasn’t hers. Someone might have given her a lift.
A week later, Alice called with good news.
“Lydia, you’ll never guess—Max is fine! He swears those pills were just vitamins. He was embarrassed to admit he’d started at the gym, taking supplements.”
“Thank goodness,” Lydia exhaled in relief. “And the investigator?”
“Oh, I never hired one. Max and I had a proper heart-to-heart, and he confessed. Turns out he’s got a crush on a girl in his year—that’s why he’s been acting odd. Teenagers, eh?”
Lydia smiled. They *were* complicated. Still, it was a relief.
“I’ll pay you back next week, I promise,” Alice added.
“No rush, whenever you can.”
They said their goodbyes, and Lydia hung up, feeling lighter. It was nice when problems sorted themselves out.
But the money never came—not next week, not the next month. When Lydia gently reminded her, Alice made excuses.
“Lydia, I’m so sorry, unexpected expenses came up. Hired Max a maths tutor—pricey business. Just a little longer, please?”
Lydia didn’t push. Three thousand wasn’t a trifle, but she could manage. And if Alice *was* spending it on Max’s education, well, that was worth it.
Winter passed quietly. Alice called less, always too busy. Max was doing well, she said, even applying to university.
In spring, Lydia visited her son in the next town over. Paul met her at the station, hugged her, asked after her health. He lived in a nice neighbourhood, a spacious flat with his wife and two kids.
“Mum, remember Alice?” he asked over dinner. “Your friend.”
“Of course. Why?”
“Saw her in town recently. Coming out of a swanky shop, arms full of bags. Dressed to the nines, like she’s rolling in it.”
Lydia studied him. “You’re sure it was her?”
“Positive. She visited us when I was a kid. I nearly said hello, but she hopped into a car and drove off.”
“What sort of car?”
“Fancy. *Very* fancy.”
Lydia fell quiet. So the car was Alice’s. And she shopped in expensive places. Then why the loan?
She returned home uneasy. Had Alice lied? But why? Three thousand wasn’t worth wrecking twenty years of friendship.
Lydia decided to dig. She looked up Alice’s neighbourhood—property prices were steep. Then she found Max on social media.
What she saw stunned her. Max looked *fine*—designer clothes, top-tier gadgets, photos from cafés and clubs. No sign of a troubled teen.
Then she scrolled further. Her pulse spiked.
A photo of Alice and Max in front of a lavish flat. The caption: “With my favourite gran in our new place.”
*New place.* So they’d moved. And by the looks of it, the flat wasn’t cheap.
Lydia shut the laptop and sat in silence. The picture was clear: Alice had lied about Max, lied about needing money, and wasn’t planning to pay her back.
But *why?* Just greed?
She called Alice and got straight to the point.
“Alice, hello. How’s Max?”
“Lydia, lovely to hear from you! He’s grand—got into uni, would you believe? On a full grant.”
“That’s wonderful. Listen, about the money—it’s been six months.”
A pause.
“What money?” Alice finally said.
“The three thousand you borrowed. For the investigator.”
“Oh, *that.* Darling, you *said* it was a gift. ‘Don’t worry about paying it back,’ remember?”
Lydia froze. She *had* said that—just politeness. Anyone would’ve known it was a loan.
“Alice, that was just an expression. Of course I expected it back.”
“But you *said*—” Alice’s voice turned icy. “Honestly, Lydia, must you be so petty? We’re *friends.*”
“Friends pay their debts.”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion. I’m in a tight spot—all my money’s going to Max’s education. Be patient.”
Alice hung up. Lydia stared at the phone, stunned. Had her best friend just swindled her?
A month later, a text from an unknown number lit up her screen.
*Hello, Lydia Wilson. My name’s Helen—Alice’s neighbour. She mentioned you lent her money, and I thought you should know. Alice has been borrowing from people for years under different pretenses—sick relatives, medical bills, tuition. Meanwhile,
