Page 6 of Knights Game

She clears her throat and opens the laptop. “Okay, well, don’t worry about the rent this month. I can cover it.” She inputs figures into the spreadsheet of doom, her long nails that are always immaculately painted tap-tap-tapping away.

I glance at my own nails, chewed and chipped. Getting my nails done is one of the last items on my list of things to buy—If I had money.

“Katy, this is the fourth month you have covered it. I can’t keep doing this.”

“Layla, have you seen your reflection?” Her hazel eyes peer over the top of the laptop. “You’re pale, girl, like deathly pale, which I know isn’t hard for you because you barely see the sun.”

I’m always working, plus it’s March and freezing.

“You havehugebags under your eyes, that no amount of cucumber or tea bags will solve.”

“Myth.” I roll my eyes.

She ignores me and continues to tell me how it is; she’s good at this. She doesn’t do it to be horrible, she just likes to keep me grounded and stop me pretending that it’s all fine. It’s not like I don’t know how up shit creek I am, I just ignore it in the hope that maybe one day it’ll go away.

“You work two jobs to cover your grandad’s care home and your basic living, and babe, I don’t think we can class your lifeas living. You are too busy working to really be enjoying life. You’re,” she frowns at the computer, “…you’re just not dying.”

I snort.Charming.

“You need a haircut, a gloss, you need new clothes and just generally some upkeep. You need to reassess.” She punctuates the last words like a punch to the gut.

I know I look exhausted; I don’t need my friend pointing all this out to me. Iamexhausted. And Iamat breaking point. This is not how I want to live my life.

Most 25-year-olds are out boozing and having fun. Me, I’m barely scraping the barrel and, if it wasn’t for Katy, I’d be on the street. And for that I am very, very grateful.

“You need to move him,” she says after a beat, staring back at the screen.

If only Icouldmove him.

“I can’t,” I say, standing up. Of course, I know this is what I need to do. There are plenty of other residential homes in the area that will meet his needs. I just can’t bring myself to do it. My parents chose this place.

“Just move him, he’s what 105?”

“Eighty-three.” I walk into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle.

“Well, at 83, he probably wouldn’t even realise,” she calls from the living room.

I flinch and lean through the doorway that separates the living room from our small kitchen in the two-bedroom flat we share in South Kensington. She at least has the decency to look apologetic.

“He’s got dementia, and although that may well be true, I can’t move him. He doesn’t remember much, but he feels safe there.”Unfortunately. As soon as I think it, my stomach churns with guilt. I’m going to hell for that I’m sure of it. “I can’t have him go through the upheaval.”

This isn’t a new conversation, it’s that time of the month: bills time, chat time. Trying to talk some sense into Layla time.

“Is this what your parents would have wanted for you?”

My gaze whips to hers, and I shoot her a warning look. We don’t go there, ever.

“Look,” she says, pushing the laptop to one side and crossing her legs in front of her, “I’m just trying to make you see. You can’t keep going on like this. You can’t take on the burden of your grandad. It’s time to ask for some help.”

“Who from? I have no one.”

“You have me,” she says, throwing a cushion, which I catch easily. “And there are organisations that can help. Call Citizens Advice. They’ll be able to, well, you know, give you advice and shit. And you need to call the bank. Maybe they can extend your overdraft, or you can explain the circumstances.” She takes a breath before adding softly, “And you need to double check your parents’ will. Make sure you have everything that was left in the estate, and nothing was missed.”

She’s right, I did need to do the last bit. At that awful time, Grandad was executor of the will, but he was already showing symptoms. God knows whether there was something in there that was missed. My parents had meant to update it after his diagnosis, but never got round to it. I’d been holding off investigating because I would need lawyers, and guess what lawyers cost—money, and I had none.

Fuck. My. Life.

“Hi, Grandad.”

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