Page 121 of The Home Grown
But the truth is, I hate confrontation. I’ve never been good at it. I come across feeble, like a soggy biscuit dunked for too long in a hot brew and on the cusp of breaking.
I pause for a moment, considering my options of either knocking or running away, when the door opens a crack and Greg, still in a grey work suit, tie loosened, pokes his head out.
He holds my gaze for a second, then he says, “Ellie, is everything okay?”
I raise my eyebrows, folding my arms over my chest. The audacity of this guy. What is he expecting me to say? ‘Oh, hi, Greg. Kathryn screwed me over, but everything’s peachy.Thanks for asking.’
“No, everything is not okay,” I say. “I need to speak with my sister. Now.”
He turns to look away, checking something behind him, but he keeps his body in the gap between the door and its frame, blocking my view into the house.
A moment later, he faces me again, a frown pulling at his lips.
“Kathryn’s got a headache. Maybe you should come back another day.”
Headache, my bum.
“It won’t take a minute,” I say, smiling sweetly.
But Greg has his response ready.
“She’s not up to it, El, honest.”
I sigh, studying the door, wondering if I can barge it open, but Greg must catch on because he squeezes onto the doorstep and pulls it shut behind him.
“Look. I’m sorry about the email thing,” he says. “But?—”
“I just want my money back,” I say. “That’s all. I don’t want any drama. I don’t want to cause a fuss in front of your neighbours.” I cast a glance over my shoulder, already feeling the burning glare of Mrs ‘Across-the-Street’ peering at us through her net curtains. “All I want is my money back.”
“Your money back?” Greg pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry what?”
“My money,” I say again. “The money I lent Kathryn to start her business. Seven grand. I wa—” I stop myself. “I need it back.”
Greg’s face twists into a contorted smile, then he laughs. A belly chuckle I associate with mockery.
“Seven … seven grand?”
“Yes,” I say, my expression sombre.
His laugh dies, and his expression turns sour.
“Seven grand to start?—”
“Yes. Like I said, I lent her seven grand to start the business. My share of Grandad’s money,” I say. “And I could really?—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I put the money in thesalon. All of it.”
“Well, you couldn’t have paid for it all,” I say. “I definitely lent her money, and I’ve got proof.” I rummage in my bag for my phone, but the unmistakable sound of a door slamming pulls my attention back.
He’s gone. He’s actually gone.
I try the handle, but it’s locked; I’m met with its firm resistance, not willing to budge.
“Greg?” I shout. “Greg?”
I use the palm of my hand to pound on the frosted glass of the door.
Bang, bang, bang.
