Would I spend my whole life proving I was blameless?
Vicky was watching telly while her husband sat at the computer when her mother rang.
“What’s wrong, Mum?” Vicky asked warily, muting the telly.
“Nothing’s wrong. Just wanted to chat.”
But Vicky knew her mother never called without reason. “Mum, out with it. Has Lizzie been up to something again?”
Her mother sighed. “She’s badgered me half to death about moving in with you. Says she wants to go to uni—though heaven knows how, with her grades. All she cares about is gallivanting about. There’s a good college right here, even a nursing school, but she won’t hear of it.”
“But Nik and I only have a one-bed flat. It won’t be comfortable with her here,” Vicky said.
“I know. I’m afraid she’ll run off to you anyway. Thought I’d warn you. Maybe you could talk some sense into her? She won’t listen to me. Completely out of hand.”
“Mum, she won’t listen to me either. Once she sets her mind to something, that’s it. You know how she is. I’ll try Uncle Jack—maybe he’ll take her in.”
“Do talk to him, Vicky. Though, with his family… it’s awkward.”
“Why? She’s his daughter, after all. Fine, I’ll ring him and call you back.” Vicky set the phone aside.
“Your mum?” Nik looked up from the screen.
“Yeah. Lizzie wants to come stay, says she’s applying to uni.”
“So? If she gets in, they’ll give her a dorm.”
“She won’t get in. There’s a college here too, but she won’t bother with that either. She just wants a husband, that’s all. I’ll speak to her father—he ought to take her in. She’s his blood.” Vicky frowned.
She had to persuade Uncle Jack. Nik was handsome—she wouldn’t have married him otherwise. And with Lizzie, anything was possible. The way she’d stared at him at their wedding…
Vicky and Lizzie had different fathers. Vicky’s had drowned when she was six—gone fishing with his mates, had a few pints, then snagged his hook on a log. He’d waded in to free it and never came up. His friends, too drunk to help in time.
Her young, pretty mother was left alone with Vicky. She kept suitors at arm’s length until, when Vicky was in Year Five, a handsome new maths teacher arrived at school. Rumour said he’d fled London after a broken heart.
He became Vicky’s form tutor. At parents’ evening, he saw her mother and fell head over heels. Soon, he was visiting often, helping Vicky with her schoolwork—not just maths. Before long, she was top of the class, and whispers followed.
Then her mother fell pregnant. She didn’t want to marry, but Jack Thomas persuaded her. At school, Vicky called him Mr. Thomas; at home, Uncle Jack. They married, and when Lizzie was born, Vicky became the elder sister—a role she cherished. Her mother trusted her to run errands, push the pram, even mind the baby if she had to pop out.
They lived together two years. Then Uncle Jack was offered a teaching post at a prestigious grammar school in Manchester—no surprise, really, he was a fine teacher, beloved by his pupils.
Her mother refused to go. She never said why, but Vicky, old enough to understand, guessed: her mother was ashamed he was younger. Afraid he’d leave her in the city, she let him go instead.
After the divorce, Uncle Jack paid child support for Lizzie, even sent a little extra for Vicky, knowing times were hard.
The sisters were nothing alike. Vicky studied hard, steady and driven. She sailed into uni. Lizzie? No interest in school—knew she was pretty and played it for all it was worth.
At uni, Vicky once bumped into Uncle Jack at a shopping centre—with his wife and young son. He asked after her mother and Lizzie, even jotted down his number, told her to call if she needed anything.
She visited twice when skint, but his wife’s cold stares stopped that. He never rang.
The day after her mother’s call, Vicky phoned him.
“Vicky!” He sounded pleased. “How are you? How’s your mum? Been ages.”
“I’m married now, Uncle Jack. Working. All’s well. But—I’m calling about Lizzie.”
A pause. She sensed him stiffen.
“Mum rang yesterday. Said Lizzie wants to come here for uni. Nik and I live in a tiny flat. I wondered… maybe she could stay with you?”
“I’ll talk to Olivia—my wife—and ring you back. Which uni’s she applying to?”
“Honestly? No idea. Doubt she’ll get in. If she does, there’s halls. If not… she’ll slink home.”
“Right. And you? Any little ones yet?”
“No. Thank you.” Relief—he’d agreed so easily.
Three weeks later, Lizzie arrived, diploma in hand.
“We’ve arranged for you to stay with your dad. I rang him—he’s expecting you.”
“Who asked you?” Lizzie flared. “I’m not going. I thought I’d be with you.”
“Where? The kitchen?”
“Why not? I don’t mind. Or—are you worried about Nik? Too old for me. Though…” She smirked.
Vicky hid her panic.
“Tomorrow we’ll apply. Where are you aiming for?”
“As if! I can manage alone.”
“Fine. Term doesn’t start for a month. No lazing about. Apply, then go home till enrolment. Non-negotiable. Now, we’re going to your father’s.”
Olivia, Uncle Jack’s wife, made her dislike plain. Two days later, Lizzie fled home.
But late July, she reappeared.
“Why aren’t you with your father?” Vicky asked coldly.
“Gone on holiday—Cornwall,” Lizzie said cheerfully.
Gritting her teeth, Vicky let her stay. Couldn’t turn her own sister out.
The flat sweltered. Lizzie pranced about in tiny shorts and a clingy top—no bra. Vicky endured it, watching Nik jealously, but he seemed oblivious.
Just a week till exam results. Then she’ll be gone.
Next day, Vicky’s boss sent her to London—urgent contracts to sign. She didn’t want to leave Nik alone with Lizzie, but duty called.
Nik switched off his PC near midnight. No sign of Lizzie. He rang—no answer. An hour later, drunken giggles crackled down the line, music blaring.
“You coming home? Do you know the time?”
“Ooh, Daddy’s worried!”
“Vicky will be. What if something happens? Where are you? I’m coming.”
“Really? Brilliant! Club—”
A man’s voice cut in: “Not leaving. Dance with me—”
“Which club?” Nik shouted.
“Piss off, I—” The line went dead.
Nik raced out, checking every city-centre club. Found her at the first—swaying against a glassy-eyed bloke with greasy hair. He tried pulling her away, but the lad squared up.
“Easy, grandad.” Pupils huge.
“Want trouble? One call to the police. She’s underage.” Nik thumbed 999.
The lad vanished. Nik bundled Lizzie into the car.
All the way home, she giggled, thrilled he’d nearly brawled for her. He shoved her into the shower.
“Wash up. You look like a—”
“A what? You—you’re a—a copper! Let me out!” She hammered the door. Nik braced against it until water ran.
Four a.m. Three hours’ sleep, if lucky. He collapsed into bed.
He overslept. Dressed in a rush, cursing Lizzie silently.
At lunch, Vicky rang.
“Can’t talk, in a meet—”
“Nik—how could you?” she shrieked.
He stepped outside.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“You slept with my sister. That’s wrong.”
“What? No—” The line died. A text followed—a photo: Nik shirtless on the sofa, Lizzie grinning beside him.
That little— He’d seen this in soaps—mistresses snapping pics to wreck marriages.
The phone rang again.
“Well?”
“I’ll murder your sister.”
Vicky raged. Nik insisted he was innocent—they’d talk at home. Lizzie’s phone was off.
The meeting ended early. Nik rushed home—Lizzie was gone.
An hour later, Vicky stormed in.
“Where is she?”
“No idea. She was asleep whenNik sighed, running a hand through his hair, and quietly said, “I swear on everything, Vicky—nothing happened, and one day you’ll finally believe me.”
