Page 34 of Knights Game

“Horrendous.” I take a gulp of wine, sitting in one of the chairs opposite her. The screen illuminates her pretty features,her work makeup still in place, her eyes searching the screen. She turns it around and I lean forward.

I locate the Outgoing tab and navigate to the cell that has the Village amount, tapping in the new information Sylvia gave me this morning, adding my additional debt in as well.

“Oh.” I spin the laptop back round, the negative value in the bottom right turning into an even brighter red. Okay, that’s a lie: it’s the exact same colour but in my mind it got darker and is flashing, taunting me.

Katy scans the page and takes a sip of wine, launching forward, throwing her hand in front of her mouth to avoid spitting all over the device.

“Fucking hell.” She looks at me, her eyes wide. “What are you going to do, Lay?”

I feel like a complete and utter failure at life.

“I need to get that will.” I stand and start pacing. “Fuck fuck fuck. I need a stronger drink.” I say, gulping at my wine.

“You know drinking isn’t the answer.”

“No, it’s not, but unless you have a spare one hundred thou, I think a vodka will make me feel better.”

Katy tilts her head to one side. “Do you want to put it on ice?”

“At this point, I’ll take it as it comes.”

She shakes her head, laughing. “No, not the alcohol. I meant your problems. Do you want to put them on ice?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Fuck it, let’s go out.”

I stare at her. I can’t get the will until tomorrow; it’s somewhere in Grandad’s room or in one of his boxes the care home stores for him.

“Fuck,” I say, standing. “What’s another hundred pounds.”

I’ll regret it in the morning but fuck it. Honestly.

Fuck it.

I pull the leather jacket closer, but I’m still freezing as we join the queue at awe absolutely must go to this clubclub.

Katy has been here before and loves the atmosphere, and it supposedly playsthebest house tracks.

Spreadsheet of doom problems have been pushed to the back of my mind, replaced by the buzz of vodka from the few bars we have been to.

My hair has been tamed by Katy’s amazing blow-drying skills. My blonde hair frames my face in loose curls running down to my boobs. My blue eyes have been given a smouldering look, with different shades of grey. The ruffled midriff of my new little black dress—well, new to me; it’s Katy’s—hides all my extra lumps and bumps, along with the one-piece body suit I’m wearing underneath.

I’m also wearing a pair of old black ankle boots that were deep in the dark recesses of my wardrobe. I don’t recognise them, so can only think they were my mum’s.

Katy waves the wand of a lip gloss over her mouth and stands next to me, taking in the bodies in front of her.

“I fucking hate queueing.”

“You’re British, suck it up, sweetheart.” I grin. I hate queueing too, especially when I’m freezing my tits off.

Her dark hair is straightened and her long bob accentuates her dark caramel eyes. She’s wearing a sleeveless black dress with her amazing boobs on show, no jacket. How is she not cold?

“Why are you dancing?” Katy asks as I move from side to side.

“Because I’m cold, I’m going to get piles at this rate.”

She snorts. “You get piles from sitting on cold things, not standing in the cold.”

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