1
‘Bastard!’ Lisa shouted as she read the note she’d found on her doormat two minutes ago. It had been a tough day at work and now this.
‘Who’s a bastard?’ her daughter, Elise, asked as she walked into the kitchen.
Lisa didn’t want to tell her. ‘I thought you were stopping at Jordan’s today.’
‘I changed my mind. I’ve got my final Economics exam tomorrow and I ought to have a stab at revising macroeconomics.’
‘Probably advisable not to stay at Jordan’s then.’ Elise and her boyfriend were still at the stage in their relationship where they couldn’t keep their hands off one another, which wasn’t conducive to a productive A-level revision session unless it was on human reproduction.
Elise headed towards the fridge, glancing at the note en route. ‘That looks like Dad’s handwriting.’
‘It is.’ So much for hiding who she thought was a bastard. Lisa avoided slagging off her ex-husband in front of their children, but sometimes it was difficult.
‘What’s he done now? ’
‘Looks like he popped round while I was at work to remind me that I have to pay him for his share of this house when you move out in September.’
Elise didn’t look surprised. ‘But you’ve always known that.’
‘Yes, but I was hoping I’d have had a pay rise or the property market would’ve crashed by now.’
Lisa had been playing for time two years ago when she’d persuaded Greg to go against his solicitor’s advice and defer taking his 20% of her house when they divorced. She’d been working part-time then with hardly any savings, and there was no way anyone would give her a mortgage to cover Greg’s share. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t now either. Despite moving to a full-time job, she’d been banging her head against a glass ceiling, and house prices were still on the up.
‘How much do you owe him?’
‘I reckon a mere half a million.’ A ridiculous amount. She’d paid much less than that when she’d bought the house in 1992.
‘Ouch. So we’re moving then.’
‘Looks like it unless I win the lottery in the next three months.’
‘I didn’t know you bought lottery tickets,’ Elise said as she grabbed a clean glass from the wall cupboard.
‘I don’t, but I’m going to start now. It’s not as if he needs the money, shacked up in Belgravia with Lady Isabella.’
‘Ah, well.’ Elise looked uncomfortable as she got some water from the fridge dispenser.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s not living with Isabella any more. She kicked him out.’
Lisa was taken aback. Greg and Isabella were frequently seen draped around one another in London Society blogs and magazines and had been ever since Greg had packed his bags and walked out on Lisa and his children on Boxing Day 2020. Lisa should have been thrilled to hear that the cheating arsehole was getting his comeuppance, but this was terrible timing. Typical Greg - she couldn’t even rely on him to be faithful to the woman he claimed to love more than anything else on Earth, even his wretched gas-guzzling 1969 Chevrolet Camaro, which Isabella had made him replace with a conventional Chelsea tractor. ‘When did he move out?’
‘Last month. She’s found someone new to keep her warm in bed at night. I think it’s the guy who designed her basement conversion.’
Lady Isabella obviously had a taste for men who worked on upgrading her house. She’d seduced Greg after she’d employed him as the architect for the yoga studio extension to her already massive mansion. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You’re never keen on hearing his latest news. I didn’t think it would matter. It’s not as if you’re ever going to take him back. I guess he needs the money because the flat he’s renting in Shepherd’s Bush is a bit shitty, to say the least.’
So there was no hope that Greg would give Lisa more time to get the cash now, though, with the house’s value continuing to rise faster than she could save, it would only delay the inevitable. Lisa looked around the kitchen as she tried to imagine cooking dinner somewhere else after over 30 years of living at Number 39 Paradise Crescent.