You Used to Be Absolutely Fine Before

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 3

Youd better spotpay me £5? No cash, the petrol gauge is empty, the voice note from a mate cut off.

Brynlee opened her banking app in silence, tapped the transfer button, and £5 flew to Liam in an instant, faster than she could finish the irritated thought.

Thanks, love, youre the best! a voice note buzzed back a minute later.

She set the phone down and stared at the ceiling of her bedroom. Best, she thought. Of course. Who else would send money at eleven at night without asking why? Who else wouldnt bring up the £30 shed lent them two weeks earlier?

Six months earlier things had been different. She, Liam, Molly and Charlie all earned roughly the same about £500 a month, give or take. They split pizza evenly, shared a café bill for four, never kept tabs on each others cash. Then Brynlee defended her dissertation, got a promotion, and moved to a new department.

Her salary quadrupled. Not 1.5 times, not double four times.

At first she didnt notice the shift. For the first couple of months she lived as before, stashing a little for a rainy day, buying groceries on sale, counting every purchase as if it cost more than £10. It was a habit. Her friends, however, got the memo instantly, as if a neon sign had lit up over her forehead: Im rich now, come on over.

Brynlee sank onto her bed, pulling her knees to her chest, and remembered that first night after the raise when theyd gathered at her flat. Molly dragged in a cheap soft drink, Charlie a bag of crisps. Liam arrived emptyhanded but with a wide grin.

She ordered sushi, bought decent drinks, cheese and fruit. As usual she split the bill among the four and posted the total in the group chat. No one sent her their share. She waited a day, two, a week. Then she sent a polite reminder with a smiling emoji.

Bryn, whats the point? Youve got money falling out of the sky now, Molly replied.

No worries, well chip in next time, Charlie added.

The next time never came. Or rather it did, but the pattern repeated. Brynlee set the table, the friends showed up, ate, left, and she footed the whole bill again.

Finally she asked outright while they were finishing pasta shed spent two hours making in her kitchen.

Guys, she began, how are we going to split the costs? Ive spent around £500 on this.

Liam swallowed a mouthful of wine. Molly widened her eyes. Charlie pretended to study the pattern on the tablecloth.

Bryn, youre rich now. £500 for you is like £50 for us, Molly said in a tone reserved for petulant children. Exactly, Liam echoed. You wont go broke, and were already tight. Dont be stingy, Bryn, Charlie patted her shoulder. Were friends.

Friends. Brynlee nodded, smiled, and let the uncomfortable subject drop. She didnt want a fight, didnt want to seem the miser counting pennies on a sixfigure salary. After that evening she started finding excuses not to invite them over work, fatigue, plans, sometimes outright lies just to avoid feeling used.

Group shopping trips turned into a sort of torture. Someone forgot their wallet, didnt have time to withdraw cash, left their card at home. Two thousand here, three thousand there. Brynlee covered it each time; refusing felt rude with a line of people waiting behind.

But the money never came back. Never.

Then New Years Eve arrived. Brynlee stood in the middle of her living room, eyeing the spread: a bowl of potato salad, pickled herring, roast chicken, assorted cold cuts, a mountain of mandarins in a crystal vase. All beautiful, all on her tab.

She hadnt planned to spend the night alone. She wanted to watch a silly holiday film and be in bed by two. But the friends were insistent.

Bryn, how will you spend New Years alone? Well come, itll be fun! Your flat is big enough for all of us! You wont ditch us, will you?

She agreed, still hoping theyd changed, that theyd bring something, chip in, at least say thank you.

The TV muttered in the background. She adjusted the glittering bauble on the artificial tree and checked the clock eleven. Soon theyd be at the door.

The intercom chimed just before midnight. Molly was the first to burst in, a cloud of perfume and sequins.

Bryn! Happy New Year! Ive got you a present!

Liam and Charlie followed.

Wow, the table looks amazing! Charlie flopped onto the sofa and lunged for the potato salad. Bryn, youre a legend. I havent eaten all morning.

Brynlee fetched glasses, poured drinks, and they clinked, toasting the year gone, the one ahead, and friendship. She smiled and said the right things, but something tugged at her throat. She didnt let it surface. Not now, not ten minutes before midnight.

When the clock struck twelve, Brynlee made a silent wish: that the next year would be fairer.

Gifts! Molly squealed. Lets open them!

Brynlee handed each a wrapped parcel.

Here you go, Bryn! Molly thrust a bag into her hands.

Inside was a watermelonscented shower gel.

Thanks, Brynlee said, turning it over. Watermelon. Cute. From me! Charlie handed his bag.

Red socks with reindeer. The price tag still attached £1.20.

Nice, she set the socks aside. And from me! Liam presented a tiny box.

Three cheap plastic baubles, paint peeling.

Brynlee looked at her haul: gel, socks, baubles. Roughly £3 total. She nodded to herself. Right. All proper.

Now its my turn to open yours, she said.

Molly ripped hers first: a planner, chocolates, and another pair of reindeer socks, a bit nicer.

Charlie got a shaving kit and sweets. Liam a thermos and a scarf.

All threes faces stretched in sync, as if rehearsed.

Um, thats it? Molly asked, holding up the planner. Is that all?

What do you mean?

Well, she waved the planner, the gift thats it?

Brynlee leaned back, crossed her legs.

Yes. Anything wrong?

Bryn, we thought youd you could splurge, you can afford it, Liam interjected. Im giving you what you give us roughly the same price range. Fair, right?

Unfair! Molly blurted. You earn a hundred times more than us!

I earn four times more. That doesnt mean I have to spend more on you than you do on me, Brynlee replied evenly. Its only fair.

Its our duty! Molly sprang up. Friends share!

Brynlee stared up at her, at the flushed cheeks, the glitter in her hair, trembling lips.

Share? she repeated. Ive been paying for everything for six months. Every meetup, my tab. You never pay back. You show up emptyhanded and eat my food. And now you tell me I should give?

Youre greedy, Charlie snapped. Just greedy. Youve got money, but you act like a pauper.

Im acting like someone tired of being used, Brynlee rose. This year you owe me a lot. Not a penny returned. Tonights dinner cost me £150. Did you chip in? No. Did you even offer? No. You sat and ate.

Because youre rich! Molly shouted. Its peanuts to you!

It doesnt matter if its pennies or pounds. Its my money, earned by me. I dont have to fund people who treat me like a walking wallet.

Silence. Charlie let out a loud sigh. Liam turned toward the window. Molly sat, cheeks reddened, still clutching the planner.

Youve changed, she whispered. You used to be normal.

Molly tossed the planner onto the sofa.

Lets go, lads. Nothing for us here.

They gathered their coats, slipped on shoes, and left without looking back. Liam paused at the door.

Its a shame, Bryn. Weve known each other for years.

We knew, she agreed. But you decided I should foot the bill for you.

The door slammed. Footsteps faded. Brynlee was left alone, the scent of potato salad and burnt sparklers lingering.

She returned to the table, poured herself another drink, ate a spoonful of salad it was surprisingly good with her homemade mayo. She peeled a mandarin, then another.

The TV was playing a classic comedy. She smirked, unlocked Mollys contact, then Liams, then Charlies, deleting them from every platform and clearing the chats.

The friendship hadnt survived the money test. Shed believed true friends would stay regardless of the zeros on her paycheck, but cash turned out to be a litmus test, revealing who was there for you and who was after your wallet.

She finished the salad, wrapped herself in a blanket, changed the channel.

Outside, fireworks cracked, painting the night sky over the rooftops. She watched them and smiled a genuine, unforced smile.

It wasnt the end. She would meet new people, those who value her for who she is, with or without a salary. Those who wont tally her earnings or count how much they can get from her.

The mandarins smelled of holiday and childhood. She peeled another, split it, popped it into her mouth. Sweet, juicy, perfect.

Happy New Year, Bryn. To a new life, she whispered to herself, feeling the promise of a cleaner, kinder chapter. The lesson was clear: true friendship isnt measured in pounds; its measured in sincerity.

Natalie, You’ve Been Gone Five Years—You Never Cared How I Was or What Became of Me Natalie and Ben had lived together for over five years. Ben wasn’t rolling in money—he was just an ordinary labourer earning a modest wage. Natalie always dreamed of a comfortable, or better yet, luxurious life, so whenever she met someone wealthier than her husband, she was secretly thrilled. Then one day, Natalie’s luck seemed to change—she was noticed by a wealthy businessman who promised her the world. Taken in by his smooth talk, she left her struggling husband to start a new, glamorous life. Ben was shattered by his wife’s decision. He begged her to stay, promising to work harder, switch jobs, make more money—anything to keep her happy. But Natalie remained firm. She was enchanted with visions of sailing on white yachts and shopping in Europe’s finest boutiques—things her poor husband could never provide. No vow of love or grand promise could sway her. Five years later, at thirty-two, Natalie’s rich benefactor lost interest in her—he was now surrounded by younger, more enticing women. He told her she was too argumentative and demanding, and cast her aside. With nowhere to go in London, no work experience, and no means to support herself, Natalie decided to crawl back to her ex-husband. Convinced that his vow of everlasting love meant he would be waiting for her, she set out for their former home. As she approached the door, she heard a rustle inside. The door opened, and a stranger holding a small girl appeared. “Darling, I’ve told you before not to open the door on your own,” the woman said to the girl in her arms. Then she turned to Natalie, “Can I help you?” Natalie stood frozen on the doorstep. “I’m looking for Ben. Is he home?” she stammered, lost for words. “Ben, there’s someone here for you! What’s your name?” called the stranger, then glanced back at their visitor. “Natalie!” Ben exclaimed in surprise when he appeared. Turning to the woman, he said, “Sweetheart, go back inside. I need to talk for a minute.” “Who was that woman?” Natalie asked, staring after the young woman with her daughter. “That’s my wife, Olivia, and in her arms is our daughter, Maddy,” Ben replied. “When did you get married? You have a daughter? Ben, you swore eternal love to me—you promised you’d never love anyone as much as you loved me!” “So many years have passed since that day! At first, I was heartbroken, but then I realised life goes on after you. Then I met Olivia—and I fell in love. She made me happy. She gave me a daughter.” “And what about me?” “Natalie, you’ve been gone for five years, and you never once cared how I was or what became of me. You left for someone else’s money, thinking only of comfort and a wealthy life. Maybe we were never rich, but what you did can’t be justified. Now you come back? What did you expect—that I’d be here waiting for you all this time?” “I was foolish! I love you!” “Natalie, enough of this charade. Please just go—I don’t need you and I don’t want to see you. Your fancy man threw you out so now you come crawling back? Honestly, it’s disgusting. Just go.” Natalie broke down in bitter tears, devastated that no one wanted her, while Ben was finally glad he’d managed to forget her and, in his own way, get his revenge.

“Well, Ginger, shall we head out then…” muttered Val, adjusting the makeshift lead fashioned from an old piece of rope. He zipped his ancient coat up to his chin and shivered. February that year was vicious—slush, stinging wind, cold that cut right through you. Ginger—a scruffy ginger mongrel with mottled fur and one cloudy eye—had walked into Val’s life a year ago. Val had spotted the battered and starving stray by the bins on his way back from the night shift at the steelworks. The poor animal’s left eye was milky with an old injury. A shout sliced through the evening. Val recognised the sneer—it was Steve ‘Squint’, the local twenty-something would-be tough guy. Around him loitered three teenage lads—his ‘crew.’ “Out for a walk, are we, gramps?” Steve jeered. “Just walking,” Val replied curtly, eyes down. “Oi, mate, you paying tax to walk that mutt?” one of the kids laughed. “See, he’s proper ugly—look at that dodgy eye!” A rock whistled past and struck Ginger’s side. The mongrel yelped and pressed close to Val’s shin. “Leave it,” Val said quietly, but his voice had an edge as sharp as glass. “Oooh, Percy the Tinkerer’s found his tongue!” Steve swaggered closer. “You remember whose patch this is? Dogs walk here if I say so. Got it?” Val tensed. Army training taught him to handle trouble swiftly and decisively—but that was thirty years ago. Now he was just a weary, retired fitter who didn’t want any more hassle. “C’mon, Ginger,” Val turned for home. “Yeah, you better run!” Steve called after him. “Next time I’ll finish off your freak for good!” Val lay awake all night, the confrontation twisting in his mind. The next day, sleet drummed on the windows. Val delayed the walk, but Ginger waited by the door with such faithful insistence he couldn’t refuse. “All right, all right. Just a quick one.” They steered clear of the usual haunts, but Steve’s gang were nowhere to be seen—probably hiding from the foul weather. Val was just beginning to relax when Ginger stopped dead near the old boiler house. His one good ear pricked up, sniffing. “What’s up, old boy?” Ginger whined and tugged towards the derelict. Strange noises filtered out—maybe crying, maybe groans. “Hello? Anyone there?” Val called out. No answer, just wind howling through broken brick. Ginger pulled urgently. There was fear in that one bright eye. “What is it?” Val knelt beside him. “What’s going on?” Then, he heard it—a child’s voice, desperate: “Help! Please!” Val’s heart skipped. He unclipped Ginger’s lead and followed into the ruins. Behind crumbling bricks, a boy of twelve huddled, beaten and crying—split lip, torn clothes. “Oh my God!” Val knelt. “What’s happened, son?” “Mr Williams? Is that you?” the boy peered up. Val looked closer and recognized him—Andy Moore, the quiet lad from no. 5. “Andy! Who did this?” “Steve and his lot,” Andy sniffed. “They wanted money off my mum. I told them I’d tell the police. They caught me…” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. S-so cold.” Val shrugged off his coat and wrapped Andy. Ginger pressed close, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand, son?” “My leg… I think it’s broken.” Val carefully examined it. Definitely a break. Who knew what else was wrong? “You got a phone?” “They took it.” Val fished out his battered old Nokia, dialled for an ambulance. “Hold on, Andy. Help’s coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m still alive?” Andy’s voice trembled. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t lay a finger on you,” Val promised. “Not ever again.” Andy stared at him in disbelief: “But you ran off from them yesterday…” “That was just me and Ginger. This time—it’s different.” He left the rest unsaid. How to explain the old soldier’s code—that real men don’t abandon children in trouble? The ambulance came quicker than expected. They took Andy away. Val waited by the boiler house, thoughts churning. That evening, Andy’s mum, Mrs Moore, came to his door in tears, thanking him over and over. “Mr Williams,” she sobbed, “they said if he’d been out there another hour… You saved his life!” “Wasn’t me,” Val said, stroking Ginger’s head. “Ginger found your boy.” “But what now?” Mrs Moore stared anxiously at the door. “Steve’s still out there. The police say there’s no proof—one kid’s word doesn’t count.” “It’ll be all right,” Val promised, though he had no idea how. He tossed in bed that night, restless. How could he protect Andy—and the rest of the area’s kids—from this gang? By morning, the answer was clear. Val put on his old British Army dress uniform—medals shining, jacket crisp. He checked the mirror—a soldier, even if greying and slowed by time. “Come on, Ginger. We’ve got work to do.” Steve’s gang lurked by the shop as usual. Seeing Val approach in full regalia, the youths sniggered. “Here he comes, like it’s Remembrance Sunday!” one crowed. Steve hopped off the bench, smirking. “You lost, grandad? Your day’s done.” “On the contrary,” Val replied, walking straight up. “My day’s only beginning.” “Why you dressed like that, then?” “To do my duty. To protect the vulnerable—from the likes of you.” Steve snorted. “What planet are you on, grandpa? Who cares about ‘the vulnerable’?” “You remember Andy Moore?” The laughter slid off Steve’s face. “Why would I remember some muppet?” “You’d better. Because he’ll be the last kid you harm around here.” “You threatening me, old man?” “I’m warning you.” Steve stepped forward, a glint of metal in his hand. “Let’s see if you’ve still got the bottle—” Val didn’t budge. The old army steel was back. “The law runs this patch, not you.” “And who made you the law?” “My conscience.” Then, something unexpected happened. Ginger, silent until now, stood up tall—hackles raised, a deep growl rumbling from his chest. “Your mangy dog’s next,” Steve started. “My dog’s a war hero,” Val cut in calmly. “Afghan bomb squad. She can sniff out bad guys with her eyes closed.” Utter nonsense—Ginger was no more than a bin dog. But Val’s voice had such conviction, everyone bought it. Even Ginger, who straightened and bared her teeth like a K9 legend. “She’s taken down more villains than I can count,” Val went on. “Think she couldn’t handle one jumped-up yob?” Steve faltered. His mates froze behind him. “Listen carefully,” Val intoned, stepping closer. “From today, these streets are safe. I’ll be walking every alley, every day—and my dog will know every troublemaker. You get me?” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. “You can’t scare me, you fossil. One call and—” “Make your calls,” Val nodded. “Just remember—I have my own contacts. Blokes in the nick. Life owes me more favours than you could dream.” Not true, but Val sounded utterly convincing. “The name’s Val the Veteran,” he finished. “Remember it. And leave the kids alone.” He turned away. Ginger trotted beside him, tail high. Behind, silence. Within three days, Steve and his crew had all but disappeared. And Val kept his promise. Every evening, he patrolled the estate, Ginger at his side—watchful, indomitable. Andy left hospital a week later, still limping but on the mend. That very day he knocked on Val’s door. “Mr Williams, can I help? With your patrols, I mean.” “You’d best ask your mum first.” Mrs Moore agreed, relieved her son had found such a role model. So, every night, the oddest trio strolled the estate—a retired soldier in medals, a sturdy lad, and an old ginger dog. Ginger won everyone’s hearts; even the mums let their kids stroke her, scruffy as she was. Something about her was noble. Val told the kids stories of army brotherhood and loyalty. They listened, rapt. One evening, Andy asked: “Mr Williams, have you ever been scared?” “Of course,” Val replied honestly. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of not getting there in time. Not being strong enough.” Andy stroked Ginger. “When I grow up, I want to help too. Maybe I’ll have a dog as clever as Ginger.” “You will,” Val smiled. “I’m sure of it.” Ginger wagged her tail. And soon, everyone in the area knew it: “That’s Val the Veteran’s dog. She can spot a hero from a villain.” And Ginger proudly served, no longer just a stray—now a true defender of the neighbourhood.