“You see, he’s completely out of control. His grades are slipping, and he comes home late…”
Lydia set two steaming mugs of tea on the table and slid a plate of biscuits toward her friend. Outside, a dreary October drizzle pattered against the window, but the flat was warm and cosy. Alice, as always, looked impeccable—neatly styled hair, subtle makeup, an elegant dress. At fifty-eight, she knew how to take care of herself.
“Lyddie, thank you so much for agreeing to help,” Alice said, cradling her cup with a grateful smile. “Honestly, I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
“Don’t be silly, Allie. We’ve been friends for decades. Of course I’ll help,” Lydia replied, sitting across from her and studying her friend’s face. “Now, tell me everything. What’s happened with your grandson?”
Alice sighed, rubbing her temples.
“You see, he’s completely out of control. His grades are slipping, he comes home late, and yesterday I found some pills in his pocket.”
“Good heavens,” Lydia gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “Drugs?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I was terrified. But he won’t explain—just snaps at me, says it’s none of my business.”
Lydia shook her head. She knew Max well—Alice’s seventeen-year-old grandson, orphaned young and raised by his grandmother. He’d been a sweet boy once, but lately he’d turned sullen and distant.
“What do you propose?” Lydia asked.
“I need money for a private investigator,” Alice whispered. “To find out who he’s mixing with, where he’s disappearing to. Maybe he’s fallen in with the wrong crowd.”
“How much?”
“Three thousand pounds. I know it’s a lot, but I’ll pay you back next month, once my pension comes in.”
Without hesitation, Lydia stood and went to the cabinet where she kept her emergency savings. Alice had been her closest friend for over twenty years. They’d met at work, back when they were both married, raising children, dreaming of the future. Life had taken them to different towns, but they’d stayed in touch—letters, phone calls, visits.
When Lydia was widowed, Alice had been her rock. And when tragedy struck Alice—her son and daughter-in-law killed in a car crash, leaving little Max behind—Lydia had rushed to her side, helping with the funeral, the paperwork, the grief.
“Here,” Lydia said, handing her an envelope. “And don’t worry about paying me back. If you need more, just say the word.”
Alice clutched the envelope and pulled Lydia into a tight hug.
“You’re the best,” she murmured. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
They sat at the kitchen table for hours, sipping tea and talking. Alice confessed how hard it was raising a teenager alone, especially one as moody as Max. Lydia offered advice, sharing stories of raising her own son.
“How’s your Paul these days?” Alice asked. “Haven’t seen him in ages.”
“Doing well. Lovely family, steady job. Just doesn’t call often—always busy.”
“Typical. Kids grow up, drift away.”
Alice didn’t leave until evening. Lydia walked her to the lift, said goodbye, and watched the doors close behind her.
The flat fell silent. Lydia cleared the dishes, watered the plants on the windowsill, and settled in front of the telly. But she couldn’t focus—her mind kept circling back to Max. He’d been such a good boy. Had he really gotten mixed up in something dangerous?
The next day, Lydia went for her routine check-up at the clinic. In the queue for the GP sat her neighbour, Valerie.
“Lydia! Long time no see,” Valerie said brightly. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know. Same as ever. Had a friend over yesterday—trouble with her grandson.”
“Which friend? The one with the posh car?”
Lydia blinked. Alice *had* arrived in a car, but she’d never mentioned owning one.
“Possibly. How’d you know?”
“Saw her pulling away from your building. Fancy motor, that. Must’ve cost a pretty penny.”
Lydia frowned. If Alice had a car like that, why borrow money? Then again, maybe someone had driven her.
A week later, Alice called with good news.
“Lyddie, guess what? Max is fine! Those pills were just vitamins. He was embarrassed to admit he’d started at the gym, taking supplements.”
“Thank goodness,” Lydia exhaled. “And the investigator?”
“Oh, I never hired one. Max and I had a heart-to-heart—turns out he’s smitten with a girl in his year. You know how teenagers are.”
Lydia smiled. Teenagers *were* a mystery. Thank God it was nothing worse.
“And I’ll pay you back next week, promise,” Alice added.
“No rush, whenever you can.”
They hung up, and Lydia felt lighter. Problems that solved themselves were the best kind.
But the money never came—not next week, not next month. When Lydia gently reminded her, Alice made excuses.
“Lyddie, I’m so sorry—unexpected expenses. Hired Max a maths tutor, and it’s not cheap. Just a little longer, please?”
Lydia didn’t push. Three thousand pounds was a lot, but not ruinous. If Alice needed it for Max’s education, so be it.
Winter passed quietly. Alice rarely called, always too busy. Max was doing well, she said—top marks, even applying to university.
Come spring, Lydia visited her son in the next town over. Paul met her at the station, hugged her tight, asked after her health. He lived in a nice neighbourhood, a spacious flat with his wife and two kids.
“Mum, remember Alice? Your old friend?” he asked over dinner.
“Of course. Why?”
“Saw her in town last week. Coming out of some high-end boutique, arms full of bags. Dressed to the nines, like she’s rolling in it.”
Lydia stared.
“You’re sure it was her?”
“Positive. She visited us when I was in secondary school. Almost said hello, but she hopped into a car too fast.”
“What kind of car?”
“Expensive. Really expensive.”
Lydia went quiet. So the car *was* Alice’s. And the clothes, the shopping. Then why borrow money?
Back home, she dug deeper. A quick search revealed Alice’s neighbourhood was one of the priciest in town. Then she found Max’s social media.
Her stomach dropped. Max looked *fine*—designer clothes, flashy gadgets, photos from cafés and clubs. No sign of a troubled teen or a struggling family.
Then she found the photo that made her heart race. Alice and Max, grinning in front of a lavish flat. The caption: “With my darling gran in our new place.”
*New place.* So they’d moved. And judging by the decor, it wasn’t cheap.
Lydia shut her laptop, sat in silence. The picture was clear: Alice had lied about Max, lied about needing money, taken the cash with no intention of returning it.
But *why?* Just greed?
She called Alice, cutting straight to the point.
“Allie, about that money. It’s been six months.”
A pause.
“What money?”
“The three thousand pounds you borrowed. For the investigator.”
“Oh! But darling, you *said* it was a gift. ‘Don’t worry about paying it back’—your exact words.”
Lydia stiffened. She *had* said that—politely, assuming any decent person would know to repay a debt.
“Alice, that was just manners. Of course I expected it back.”
“But you *said*—” Alice’s voice turned icy. “Honestly, Lyddie, I never took you for the penny-pinching type. We’re *friends.*”
“Friends repay debts.”
“God, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. I’ve got Max’s tuition to cover. Be patient.”
The line went dead. Lydia sat frozen, phone in hand. Had her best friend just… stolen from her?
A month later, a stranger texted:
*”Lydia, this is Helen—Alice’s neighbour. She mentioned your loan, and I had to warn you. Alice has been scamming people for years—sob stories about sick grandsons, medical bills, tuition. Meanwhile, she lives like royalty. You’re not the first.”*
Lydia read it twice. So she wasn’t alone. Alice was a *con artist.*
Helen agreed to meet. Over coffee, she revealed Alice’s scheme: target lonely women, spin a sad tale, vanish with the cash.
“She’s clever,” Helen said. “No one reports her—too ashamed. They just write it off as a life lesson.”
Lydia thanked her and left. Now she knew: Alice had played her. Not just her—dozens of others.
The betrayal stung
