Page 8 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘After that, everything just fell apart; I lost my flat, my business . . . The police called him in for questioning, but he’d long disappeared, and my money with him. I tried calling the bank but they refused to reimburse me as I’d authorized all the payments . . . something about “contributory negligence”. They’d even contacted me and read a fraud-warning script when I’d first sent funds internationally, but I’d confirmed it was to my fiancé’s business and they were all genuine—’ She broke off and laughed bitterly. ‘Which is how I ended up here. I know it’s not much, but this caravan was the only thing I could afford. If it wasn’t for knowing the local farmer, and him letting me rent this field cheaply to put it in, I’d be homeless.’

The water leaking in through the windows had formed a pool and was now dripping onto the banquette sofas. Reaching for a roll of paper towels, Maggie started mopping it up.

‘And you know the worst thing of all? The bastard even stole my dad’s watch.’

A brief flash of anger. She couldn’t bring herself to say his name. Tearing off a sheet, she folded it up and shoved it furiously in the cracks.

‘It wasn’t worth anything, Dad wasn’t into material possessions, but it had huge sentimental value . . . It’d stopped working, so it sat in a drawer for ages, along with a few other bits of jewellery. I kept meaning to get it fixed, but just never got round to it. When I mentioned it to him, he offered to get it fixed for me; he was kind like that.’ She laughs, bitterly. ‘When he disappeared, the watch disappeared with him.’

Maggie broke off finally and the caravan fell quiet.

Flick had been listening, not wanting to interrupt, but now she spoke.

‘Well, he’s not disappeared any more. I’ve found out where he is.’

But Maggie shook her head firmly.

‘I don’t want to know. I don’t ever want to see him again. If you want to tell someone, tell the police.’

‘But we could stop him from doing this to someone else. We could save another woman from losing everything.’

‘How?’

‘By doing an exposé and revealing the truth about him. Letting the public know all the shocking facts. Confronting him and making him answer to what he did. You aren’t the first woman he did this to, and you won’t be the last.’

But while Flick’s voice was urgent, Maggie’s was weary.

‘I’m tired. I just want to put all this behind me.’

‘What about your life savings?’

‘I’m sure the money is long gone.’ Maggie shrugged with resignation. ‘The last time I spoke to the police they said it was still under investigation, but there was little chance of getting it back even if it went to court and they got a conviction. Which seems unlikely, considering they’ve yet to find him to question him.’

‘Well, even if the police can’t do anything, the newspaper can still publish an article.’

Maggie looked at Flick. At this young, eager reporter with her whole life ahead of her. Was she like that once? She couldn’t remember. She felt a sudden, strange affection for both Flick and her old self. And a crushing sense of sadness.

‘Look, you seem really nice; really, you do. And I’m sure you’re a really good journalist. And if you want to write a story, then I can’t stop you; go ahead – but I don’t want to be any part of it. What happened really affected me and it’s taken me a long time to recover from it . . . In fact, I don’t think I’ll ever fully recover from it.’

She heard her voice catch in her throat and blinked rapidly.

‘The police gave me some pamphlets with the details of support groups, links to websites, numbers I could call . . . I thought about it, but I don’t want to go over what happened to me. I just want to move on. Put it behind me, try to forget about it. The last thing I need right now is you dragging it all up again.’

She straightened up, her decision made.

‘So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to say goodbye now and it’s nice to meet you. I’m sure you can find your way out.’

She’d said her piece and now Maggie looked at Flick, waiting to be challenged. But while Flick was a keen journalist and had learned all about questioning and trying to get answers, about eliciting information and being persuasive, she also knew when to call it a day.

‘OK, fair enough.’

Putting her bag on her shoulder, she squeezed past Maggie and the collapsed clothes airer and walked the few paces to the door of the caravan. As she did, she caught sight of a black-and-white photograph on the side, of a little girl and her father. Curled up on his knee, she was laughing; he had his arms around her, hugging her tightly. It struck something inside and she gestured to it.

‘Is that you with your dad?’

‘Yes.’ Maggie allowed herself to smile.

Flick looked at it again, noting his wristwatch.