Chapter 9: The Loft Papers

I printed the last page at two in the morning.

My signature with the gravy smudge. Sandra's name underneath.

I didn't ring a solicitor.

I didn't ring Nic.

I slept for three hours, showered, put on my good jeans, and walked to the Gold Hound for Sunday lunch.

The pub had a banner up outside now.

HOME OF THE KISS. SUNDAY ROAST £14.95.

Inside it was busy.

Families at the long tables. A hen party in matching sashes. Lads in Spain shirts still celebrating a week later.

The older barmaid saw me come in and nearly dropped a gravy jug.

Alfie and Steph were at the end of the bar, on the high stools.

Two roast dinners. Two glasses of red.

Steph had her bare foot up on the rung of his stool, the little red bull tattoo on her ankle.

Alfie had his hand on her knee.

He took it off when he saw me.

Too late again.

I walked up the length of the bar.

People at the tables started nudging each other.

I put the printed page down between their plates, face up.

"I've found the loft papers," I said.

Alfie looked at it.

The colour left him.

Steph glanced at it, then at him, then at me, and smiled.

"Oh dear," she said. "Somebody's been on the internet."

"That's my signature," I said. "On a guarantee for your pub. Secured on my gran's house."

The barmaid stopped pouring.

The hen party stopped laughing.

"Tash," Alfie said, low. "Not here."

"Here's perfect. It's where you spent my money."

"You signed it," he said.

"I signed a loft loan."

"You signed what was in front of you." His voice went up, defensive. "You're a bookkeeper. Nobody made you. Mum was there. She witnessed it."