Money Changes Everything

Carefully holding the mobile, splayed fingers protecting manicured nails, Michael’s voicemail message was all Pamela expected.

The empty house was like a shop, voices ringing under high ceilings, space unfilled. Frowning, Pamela examined herself, turning, one foot outstretched, tight scars under her new breasts threatening to open like zips.

On her calf, under expensive stockings, a varicose vein.

It was three months after the lottery win.

The night they found out, their flat of ten years seemed small and ill-fitting. Awake for three days, afraid someone would realise their mistake, they rang for pizzas and curries, giggling like schoolchildren.

“We can have everything we ever wanted,” Michael said.

On the forth day of their new life, they bought the house on the hill.

Cowed by space and silence, they huddled near to walls and windows, afraid to explore further into the elegant interior, holding onto the edges in case they drowned in luxury.

On the twelfth day, Michael was gone for a first night. On the seventeenth, Pamela booked the consultation in London. On the twenty-ninth, she started drinking, sobbing through mouthfuls of champagne.

Heels ricocheting on tile, Pamela remembered when her body was the only thing Michael ever wanted.