Marina let her friend stay the night, only to wake and find her rummaging through her things.
“Where do you think you’re going? It’s nearly midnight!”
“Mum, I told you! It’s Lizzie’s birthdaywe’re just having coffee, then Ill come straight home. Ill get a taxi, swear!”
Marina stood in the hallway, arms folded, blocking her seventeen-year-old daughters path. Katy, already dressed in her new frock, shifted impatiently from foot to foot, lipstick freshly applied.
“A taxi at this hour? Are you mad? Its Fridaymeet up tomorrow. Its not happening, and thats final.”
“But mu-um!” Katy whined, her voice cracking with the threat of tears. “Everyone else gets to go! You dont trust me, do you? Think Im still a kid?”
“I think London at night is no place for a girl your age. End of. Go to your room and change.”
Katys eyes flashed. She spun on her heel and slammed her bedroom door so hard the china in the cabinet rattled. Marina exhaled sharply, trudging to the kitchen, her pulse still hammering from the row. Katy would sulk till morning, but letting her go was unthinkable. Fear for her only daughter outweighed any desire to be the “cool” mum.
The kettle hissed as she slumped onto a stool. The evening was ruined. Thenthe phone rang. Marina grabbed it, bracing for her mothers nagging or the neighbours latest favour.
“Hello?” she sighed.
“Marina? Its meoh God, its me.” The voice on the line was ragged, trembling. “Its Claire. Whitmore. Remember?”
Marina froze. Claire Whitmoreher uni best mate, though they hadnt spoken in fifteen years. Calls had dwindled to Christmas cards, then silence.
“Claire? Of course I remember. Whats wrong? You sound”
“Im so sorry for calling so late,” Claire choked. “Ive got no one else. Itsits awful. Hes thrown me out.”
The story tumbled out in gaspsher partner of ten years had left her for another woman, given her an hour to pack. The flat was his; shed worked cash-in-hand at his firm. Now she sat at Kings Cross with nothing but a holdall and thirty pence to her name.
Marinas chest tightened. She pictured Clairebright, bold Claire, the girl whod turned heads in lectureshuddled on a station bench, lost and alone. The anger at Katy dissolved.
“Where exactly are you? Stay there. Get a cabIll cover it.”
“Marina, I cant impose”
“Dont argue. Still remember the address?”
“Beechwood Road, number twelve?”
“Flat forty-five. Ill wait.”
Hanging up, Marina scrambled to prep the guest bedthe lumpy sofa in the lounge, but it would do. Fresh sheets, a blanket, a pillow. Her hands shook. This was right. Who else did Claire have?
An hour later, the doorbell rang. The woman on the doorstep was a ghost of the Claire shed knownhollow-eyed, her designer jacket crumpled, hair a mess.
“Marina,” she whispered, collapsing into her arms.
“Shh. Come in.” She guided her to the kitchen, pouring tea. Claires hands trembled around the mug.
“Thank you. If you hadnt”
“Stop. Thats what friends do.”
Claire barely touched the toast Marina offered. “Can I just lie down?”
In the lounge, Claire sank onto the sofa. Marina tiptoed out, peeking into Katys roomher girl was asleep, curled tight. The earlier fight faded. Her thoughts spun. How had Claire fallen so far?
Dawn came too soon. Marina crept out, careful not to wake her guest or Katy. Then she froze. Her bedroom door, which shed shut, stood ajar. A faint rustling inside.
Not Katy. Claire.
Heart in her throat, Marina edged closer. Through the crack, she saw Claire kneeling at her dresser, drawers pulled open, fingers probing through folded jumpers, socks. She lifted the trinket boxMums earrings, the thin gold chain from her late husband, a few cheap ringsscanned it, then shoved it back. Next, the paperwork drawer.
Marinas vision darkened. This wasnt happening. Her friend, the one shed taken in, was rifling through her things like a burglar.
She backed away, slipping under her covers, shaking. Why? Money? Jewels? But the trinket box was still there.
Minutes later, the rustling stopped. The door creaked shut.
At breakfast, Claire chatted breezily about job hunts, her exs crueltyno hint of guilt.
Katy, eyeing the stranger over her cereal, muttered later, “Shes weird, Mum. Her eyes dart about.”
By Monday, Marina couldnt stand it. She rang an old uni friend, Olivia.
“Claire Whitmore? Be careful,” Olivia warned. “Remember the trip fund that vanished? Lou swore she saw Claire pocket it. And last I heard, shes deep in debtloan sharks after her.”
Marinas blood ran cold.
She came home early. The flat was silent. ThenKatys room. Claire sat at the desk, flipping through her daughters sketchbook. On the bed, the old photo albumpictures of Tom, Marinas late husband.
“What are you doing?” Marinas voice was ice.
Claire spun, startled, then smirked. “Looking for what Tom left you. He collected coins, didnt he? Antique sovereigns?”
The truth hit like a slap. Claire hadnt come for shelter. Shed come to loot.
“Get out.”
Ten minutes later, Claire was gone.
Marina slid to the floor, Katy hugging her tight. “People change, Mum,” she whispered. “Especially when theyre desperate.”
The flat felt lighter, cleaner. Her real treasure wasnt in trinket boxes. It was right here, arms wrapped around her, warm and safe.
