“You’ve got a fiver for me?” the voice note crackled, the friend’s tone thin with desperation. “I’m out of cash, the tank’s dead.”
Daisy Harper stared at her phone, opened the bank app, and tapped the transfer button. Five pounds vanished in an instant, landing in Liam Patels account before she could finish the irritated thought hanging in the back of her mind.
“Thanks, loveyou’re a star!” the reply buzzed back a minute later.
She set the phone down and stared up at the ceiling of her flat. A star, right. Who else would send money at eleven at night without asking questions? Who wouldnt remind her of the three hundred pounds shed lent them two weeks ago?
Six months earlier things had been different. She, Liam, Blythe Clarke and Kyle Morgan all earned roughly the sameabout five thousand pounds a month, nothing to write home about. They split pizza equally, divided café tabs among four, never kept score. Then Daisy defended her dissertation, landed a promotion, and moved to a new department.
Her salary quadrupled. Not one and a half, not doublefour times what it had been.
At first she didnt notice the shift. For a couple of months she lived as before, stashing away for a rainy day, hunting for bargains, treating every purchase as if it cost a thousand pounds. It was a habit. Her friends, however, saw it instantly. It was as if a neon sign lit up on her forehead: Im rich nowbring it on.
Daisy curled up on her bed, pulling her knees to her chest, recalling that first night after her raise. Blythe arrived with a cheap bottle of cider, Kyle with a bag of crisps. Liam showed up emptyhanded, but with a grin as wide as the Thames.
Daisy ordered sushi, decent drinks, cheese and fruit. She added everyones share, divided the bill by four, and posted the total in their group chat. No one transferred a penny. She waited a day, then two, then a week. Finally she sent a polite reminder, complete with a smiling emoji.
Daisy, why bother? Youve got money to burn now, Blythe texted.
Dont worry, well chip in next time, Kyle added.
The next time never came. Or rather, it did, but the pattern repeated. Daisy set the table, the friends came, ate, and leftand Daisy footed the whole bill again.
She decided to confront them directly. They were still in her kitchen, polishing off the pasta shed spent two hours making.
Guys, she began, how are we going to split the costs? Ive put roughly five hundred pounds on this nights tab.
Liam swallowed his wine. Blythe widened her eyes. Kyle pretended to study the napkin pattern.
Daisy, Blythe said in that condescending tone you use with a petulant child, youre rich now. Five hundred pounds to you is like five dozen pounds to us.
Exactly, Liam chimed. You wont go broke. Were already strapped as it is.
Dont be stingy, Daisy, Kyle clapped her on the shoulder. Were friends.
Friends. Daisy nodded, smiled, and let the uncomfortable subject drop. She didnt want a fight, didnt want to be painted as the miser counting pennies on a sixfigure salary. After that night she began to avoid inviting them over. She blamed work, fatigue, other plans. Sometimes she lied, just to keep the feeling of being taken for granted at bay.
Trips to the supermarket turned into a kind of torture. Every time someone forgot their wallet, didnt have cash, or left their card at home. Two thousand pounds here, three thousand there. Daisy covered it, because refusing felt wrong when a line of customers waited behind them.
But the money never came back. Never.
Then New Years Eve arrived. The thirtyfirst of December. Daisy stood in her living room, eyeing the spread: a glistening turkey, roast potatoes, a tower of mandarins in a crystal vase, all laid out on a table shed paid for herself.
She hadnt planned to spend the night alone, watching some cheesy holiday film and falling asleep at two. Yet the friends kept pressing.
Daisy, how can you be on your own for New Years? Well be therefun guaranteed!
Your flats big enough for all of us!
You wont ditch us, will you?
She agreed, clinging to a fragile hope that maybe theyd changed, that theyd actually chip in or at least say thank you.
The TV murmured in the background. Daisy adjusted the glittering bauble on the artificial tree and glanced at the clockeleven. Soon theyd be here.
The intercom buzzed a quarter to midnight. Blythe burst in first, surrounded by a cloud of perfume and sequins.
Daisy! Happy New Year! Ive got a little present for you!
Liam and Kyle followed, shoulders slumped from the cold.
Wow, the table looks gorgeous! Kyle flopped onto the sofa and lunged for the turkey. Daisy, youve outdone yourself. I havent eaten all morning.
Daisy fetched glasses, poured drinks, and they clinked, toasting the year gone, the one ahead, and their friendship. She smiled, said all the right things, while something inside rasped and scraped, begging to be heard. She held it in. Not now. Not ten minutes before midnight.
When the clock struck twelve, Daisy made a quiet wish: may the next year be fairer than this one.
Presents! Blythe shrieked. Lets open them!
Daisy handed each a wrapped parcel.
Here you go, Daisy! Blythe thrust a bag into her hands. Inside was a watermelonscented shower gel.
Oh, thanks, Daisy turned it over, inhaling. Watermelon. Nice.
From me! Kyle offered his bagred socks with reindeer embroidered, price tag still attached: £1.20.
Cool, she set the socks aside.
And from me! Liam solemnly presented a small boxplastic baubles with flaking paint.
She examined the gifts: gel, socks, baubles. Total valuearound three pounds. She nodded to herself. Right. All right.
Now Ill open mine, she announced.
Blythe ripped hers first: a diary, some sweets, and a pair of reindeer socksprettier than Kyles.
Kyle got a shaving kit and some candy. Liam received a thermos and a scarf.
Their faces stretched in unison, as if rehearsed.
Um is that all? Blythe asked, holding up the diary. Daisy, seriously?
What do you mean?
Its just a diary? she waved it. Thats the whole gift?
Daisy leaned back, crossed her legs.
Yes. Anything wrong?
Dasha I mean, Daisy we thought youd splash out a bit. You can afford it, Liam interjected. Im giving you the same price range back. Fair, right?
Its not fair! Blythe snapped. You earn a hundred times more than us!
Its four times more, Daisy replied, voice steady. That doesnt mean I have to spend more on you than you do on me.
Obligated! Blythe leapt up. Friends share!
Daisy looked up at her, at the flushed cheeks, the glitter in her hair, the trembling lips.
Share? Ive been covering everything for half a year. Every meetup costs me. You never pay back. You show up emptyhanded, eat my food, then tell me I should what? Keep footing the bill?
Youre greedy, Kyle muttered. Just greedy. Moneys there, but you act like youre broke.
Im acting like someone whos fed up with being used, Daisy rose. You owe me a lot. Not a single penny returned. Tonights spread cost me fifteen hundred pounds. Did you chip in? No. Did you even offer? No. You just sat and ate.
Because youre rich! Blythe shouted. Its nothing to you!
It doesnt matter if its pennies or a fortune. Its my money. I earned it. Im not a walking wallet.
Silence fell. Kyle let out a loud sigh. Liam turned toward the window. Blythe stood, cheeks flushed, diary still clutched.
Youve changed, she whispered. You used to be normal.
Blythe threw the diary onto the sofa.
Lets go, folks. Nothing for us here.
They gathered their jackets, slipped on shoes, avoided looking at her. Liam finally turned at the doorway.
Dont be like this, Daisy. Weve been friends for years.
Friends, she echoed. And now you think I should keep supporting you.
The door slammed. Footsteps faded down the stairwell. Daisy was left alone in a flat scented with turkey and burnt incense.
She returned to the table, poured herself a drink, scooped a spoonful of saladcreamy, homemade mayo, deliciousthen a mandarin, another, and another. The TV rolled the classic British comedy Last of the Summer Wine. She smiled, grabbed her phone, and blocked Blythe, then Liam, then Kyle. She deleted them from every social platform, cleared the chats.
Their friendship had failed the money test. Shed believed friends would stay friends regardless of the zeros on her pay slip. Money, she learned, is a litmus test: it shows whos there for you and whos after your wallet.
She finished the turkey, wrapped herself in a blanket, switched the channel. Outside, fireworks cracked, painting the night sky over the rooftops. She watched, a genuine smile bloomingnot forced, not sad, but real.
It wasnt the end. Shed find new people, those whod value her for who she was, with or without a paycheck. Those who wouldnt count her salary or tally what they could squeeze from her.
The mandarins smelled of holiday and childhood. Daisy peeled another, split it, and slipped it into her mouthsweet, juicy, perfect.
Happy New Year, Daisy. Happy new life, she whispered to the empty room, the glittering lights, and the promise of tomorrow.
