Page 7 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘You’re damn right I wouldn’t! Why would I? So you can write about me in your paper? Let the whole word know what a fool I was?’

‘Well, to be fair, I don’t think the whole world reads The Local Echo. Our circulation is only about four and a half thousand an edition.’

Flick broke off as she caught Maggie’s expression.

‘And you’re not a fool, you’re a victim,’ she added quietly, but firmly.

It took the wind from Maggie’s sails.

‘I’ve been doing my research into romance fraud, and more and more women – and men – are coming forward and the statistics are frightening. Men like Theo Stratin deliberately target vulnerable women. Apparently the most affected age group is usually over the age of forty-five; in fact, it’s most often between the ages of fifty and seventy.’

‘Great. Even worse. An old fool.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

There was a lull as both women fell silent. Outside the rain was still lashing. Maggie watched the water seeping in at the windows.

‘How old are you, Felicity?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘How old do you think I am?’

Flick knew exactly how old Maggie was. She’d looked up her birth certificate, along with a few other things, as part of her background checks and initial investigations into the story.

‘Late thirties?’ she fibbed.

‘I’m nearly fifty, almost twice your age, and any journalist worth their salt would’ve already looked up my birth records, so they’d know that. So either you’re a crap journalist or that’s a pathetic attempt at flattery.’

Flick felt her face go beetroot.

‘I’m a good journalist and that’s a crap attempt at flattery.’

Despite the insult, Maggie smiled at her admission.

‘OK, so now we’re being honest with each other, can I tell you something off the record?’

Flick nodded.

‘He didn’t just steal my life savings, he stole everything from me: my trust, my heart, my home, my livelihood, my self-esteem . . . all of it.’

As Maggie laid her vulnerability bare on the table between them, she was reminded yet again of the heavy weight of her guilt.

‘Yet it’s me who’s ashamed. When I finally stopped crying long enough to go to the police, I felt like such an idiot—’

‘But why? That’s crazy!’ interrupted Flick. She was indignant, but Maggie shook her head firmly.

‘I was the one who’d willingly given him the money to invest in his new business venture. My father had recently passed away and left me a little bit of inheritance – not much, but it was something and it was just sitting in the bank making no interest, so I thought: why not? And when he suggested I sold my flat so we could pool our resources and buy a bigger place together, it was my idea to remortgage instead and also take out a business loan. I thought I was being so clever.’

Her voice threatened to break but she forced it to remain even.

‘It was for our future. That’s what he always said. It was an investment in our future. We were engaged, you see.’

As Maggie’s mind flicked back, she felt a swell of hurt.

‘Only, there was no international business venture. No new house. No joint account. No investments. It was all bogus. A con. A scam. What did you call it? A romance fraud.’

Followed swiftly by the usual feelings of anger, at both him and herself.