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Turns out, he was wrong.
Chapter Three
Friday, 19thNovember
Kate stared up at the place she’d once called home, seeing it as it truly was: an uninspiring, generic high-rise flat in the heart of Clapham. The brown cladding was ugly and the sky-blue panels inserted below the glazing dated back to the 1970s, when the place was built. The weather didn’t help. It was cold, grey and drizzling. A dismal day to match her mood. She could almost feel her fine blonde hair frizzing and slipping from its clasp, as if it wasn’t up to the fight either.
It was a world away from how she’d felt when she’d first moved here. She’d been so excited to own her first home. A foot on the property ladder, with all the promise of good times ahead and leaving the struggles of her childhood behind. Fast-track five years down the line and she was in worse financial strife than she’d ever been in as a child. They might have struggled for money when she was younger, but her mum had never allowed them to get into debt. Now Kate was clinging on to solvency by the skin of her teeth and sinking under the weight of bills that never seemed to stop piling up. At least after today she’d never have to set foot inside the wretched place again. It was the only thing keeping her going.
Pulling her long navy cardigan around her, she headed inside the uninspiring building.
As usual, the lift stank of cigarettes and stale urine, but at least it was working today and she didn’t have to climb the four flights of stairs several times to collect the last of her belongings. Thankfully, Beth had loaned Kate her car, so she didn’t have to lug everything home on the train. It was the last opportunity shehad to take anything of sentimental value, before handing over the keys to the mortgage company.
The front door of her flat needed a shove to get it to open. Further dread settled over her when she saw the pile of post stacked up on the doormat, brown envelopes stamped with red slogans announcing: ‘Do Not Ignore’. Tempting as it was to burn the lot, she knew that wouldn’t make the problem go away.
Kicking off her wet boots by the door, she skimmed through the envelopes, relieved to note that most of them were addressed to Tristan. Their divorce had severed their financial connection, so any debts in his sole name were now his responsibility alone.
She paused when she discovered one addressed to her, an official-looking letter from Mordens Collection Agency.What did they want now?She’d cleared the Council Tax debt, hadn’t she? She’d discovered that trying to manage escalating debts was like trying to hold on to sand. Debts would frequently be sold on, passing from one collection agency to another, each one adding their own interest charges and instructing bailiffs to call. Bailiffs who refused to take no for an answer, and would threaten to remove goods and issue a warrant for her arrest if she didn’t comply. Dealing with them had been intimidating and incredibly frightening.
With a shudder, she gathered up the letters and shoved them in a bin bag. She’d deal with them later – today was depressing enough without adding to her stress levels.
Looking around the small space, she could see that Tristan had visited since the last time she was here. The TV and Sky box had gone, as had the John Lewis lamp that her mum had given them as a moving-in gift.Nice of him to help himself. Why was she even surprised? He’d taken everything else from her, including her self-esteem – a floor lamp paled into insignificance by comparison. All that was left was the cheap Ikea sofa and her beloved upright piano.
Sadness gripped her as she went over and lifted the lid, running her fingers over the keys. It hadn’t been an expensive instrument, only fifty pounds from Gumtree. She’d love to keep it, but the storage costs would be too high and she couldn’t ask Beth to house a piano.
Sliding onto the stool, she played a few chords – minor keys, of course, melancholy to match her mood. Talk about self-pity. She let out a self-deprecating laugh and began playing Chopin’s funeral march. In public, she tried to put on a brave face. It was only when she was alone that she allowed herself to wallow.
She hadn’t always been this way – although she’d never been an extrovert, she’d been open and honest and trusting. Optimistic, even. She took people at face value and believed them to be who they were. When she’d met Tristan at university, she’d had no idea he’d turn out to be so… reckless. He’d seemed so mature for his age, so focused and driven. He’d had big ambitions and seemed to want the same things she did: a good career, a nice home and a family one day.
Her playing grew louder, the keys vibrating under her hands as she bashed out the chords, remembering how the debts had started piling up. Tristan seemed unable to stick to a monthly budget, and became resentful and challenging when she tried talking to him about it. And then she discovered he was gambling online. The next thing she knew, debt collectors were turning up at the door, demanding immediate payment, and life as she’d known it was over.
A knock on the door startled her.
She stopped playing. Had she been too loud? Was it a neighbour complaining?
And then she realised she was crying. When had that happened?
Another knock on the door.
‘Hang on, I’m coming,’ she called out, guessing it was the mortgage company arriving early.
Another rap on the door.
‘I’m coming!’ she called out, her agitation levels increasing. As she yanked open the door, the sight that greeted her sent her stumbling backwards and she immediately slammed it shut again.
A wave of panic raced through her as she leant against the door, her heart pounding in her chest. There was no way that man was from the mortgage company. He must be a bailiff, or a debt collector. Why wouldn’t they leave her alone? Hadn’t they taken enough?
She jumped when there was another knock.
Turning, she squinted through the spyhole and assessed the man standing on the other side. Medium height, bronze-coloured skin, with a neatly trimmed goatee. His Afro hair was longer on top and tied up, a contrast to the fade-to-skin shaved section beneath. Sleeve tattoos covered his arms and his lean athletic physique was visible beneath his short-sleeved black top. He was definitely not a representative from the mortgage company. Not unless NatWest had significantly changed their uniforms.
‘What do you want?’ she called through the door. ‘I don’t have any money and there’s nothing valuable in the flat.’
She saw him frown. ‘Excuse me?’
‘The mortgage company have repossessed the flat,’ she said, struggling to control the shake in her voice. ‘Legally, you’re not allowed to take anything. It no longer belongs to me.’
‘Why would I want to take anything?’ He sounded genuinely bemused, but she wasn’t falling for his act. She’d been here before.
