Page 2 of The Retreat

Imogen Lake was standing on a wobbly chair, arm deep inside a cupboard she hadn’t opened since the start of the pandemic, when the entire contents of the top shelf rained down on her. Most of it was light enough, but a tin of chickpeas joined the fun and hit her on the shoulder.

‘FUCK!’

She lost her footing and sat heavily on the floor. From this position on her arse, she could see dirt and grime she would have preferred not to know about.

She stood and put the stuff back in, hoping that amongst the debris would be tea bags. But no. Just tins that were several years overdate. She hoped it wouldn’t come to eating them, but she couldn’t swear to it.

Her phone buzzed again from the kitchen table. Imogen stood, padded over, and picked it up with a sigh. She unlocked it and swiped into her Instagram.

Of course, it was Flora. Imogen only had post notifications on for her. She didn’t even follow Flora with her main account anymore, but the finsta let her keep an eye on things without the sting of being seen.

Flora’s latest girlfriend was the star of the snap. She was tall, blonde, and effortlessly hot in that vaguely French way. Looking at her made Imogen feel downright schlubby. She and Flora were squeezed into an intimate two-shot outside a café. Flora looked happy and in love.

She scrolled past the post quickly, biting her lip. She should unfollow. She really should.

She exhaled sharply and shoved the phone back onto the counter.

‘Get a grip, Imogen,’ she muttered to herself. ‘She just didn’t love you.’

Not exactly a comforting thought. So, she turned her mind another way. A pretty picture meant nothing. No one posted pictures of the bad times, did they? That girlfriend would probably end up like her, right? Dumped.

Her phone buzzed again, but this time it was an email.

Subject: How to Earn Passive Income from Home (Yes, Really!)

Imogen snorted.

‘Ah yes, this will be legit.’ She opened it anyway, knowing full well it was probably just another one of those scammy pyramid schemes.

But if there was even a chance it might lead to a reliable source of income, she might as well check.

She skimmed through the email, which was filled with promises of financial freedom and unlimited earning potential.

The more she read, the more she had to laugh at herself.

If get-rich-quick schemes worked, it was only for those who sold them to you.

Imogen might not be doing great right now, but she knew that much.

No MLMs for her.

Imogen stood up and wandered toward the living room, glancing at her side of the room where her laptop was open to yet another tab of survey sites and cashback apps.

The screen displayed her latest find—an app that paid pennies to scan supermarket receipts.

She tapped it, uploaded a photo of an old Tesco slip, and watched her balance inch up by 20p.

She checked her earnings for the week: ￡4.10.

She closed the laptop with a sigh.

Her life had become a patchwork of side hustles.

Re-selling old clothes on Vinted, mystery shopping for chain cafés, delivering leaflets in the rain.

None of it ever added up to enough.

One gig might cover groceries, another her phone bill, but then the council tax letter would arrive and she’d be back to square one.

She was tired, but honestly, she didn’t know what it would feel like not to be scraping by.

She’d looked into food delivery, obviously, but she couldn’t drive, and the idea of riding a bike in traffic made her feel faintly ill.

She was convinced she’d get knocked over in the first ten minutes.

So instead, there were the dog-walking gigs.

The odd spot of cleaning.

And of course, there was Lou’s Café, the one semi-regular gig she’d managed to keep going for the last six months.

It was a small, local place run by a woman named Louise who always insisted on paying her ‘under the table’ because the café was technically still trying to break even.

But Imogen was barely keeping her head above water financially.

She was always just this close to being completely broke, yet somehow always making enough to scrape by.

But she wondered how long she could ride the line before going under.

The phone beeped.

Oh, look.

Flora’s new one was standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, pretending to hold it in her fingers. What a marvellous play on perspective and proof positive of a sense of humour. This girl really was the full package.

Imogen pushed that thought aside, choosing instead to focus on what she could control, like her next cuppa.

She couldn’t really have run out of tea bags, could she? That would simply be too desperate.

She decided to try again, but she’d learned her lesson, and this time, she fetched a stool to stand on.

She opened the kitchen cupboard, hoping, praying for a box of tea bags that she might have forgotten.

But it was just more chickpeas. Why were there always more chickpeas? She needed tea!

She kept routing, hope draining by the second.

And then, just behind a tin of kidney beans, there it was.

A small box of generic brand tea bags. Imogen felt more joy than if she’d discovered the Library of Alexandria wedged behind out-of-date tins. Maybe things were going to be OK. The tea bags were a sign. The universe would provide!

After the kettle had boiled, Imogen poured the hot water into a chipped mug.

She stared at the steam rising from the tea bag and let out a slow breath.

She glanced at the clock.

It was nearly noon, which meant Lou might be texting soon, asking if she could cover the afternoon shift.

The answer would be yes. It was always yes. Shit pay was better than no pay.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

‘Imogen?’ A voice floated in from the hallway.

Imogen rolled her eyes and walked to the door. Through the peephole, she could see Mr Dawson, the landlord, holding up an envelope.

‘Imogen? Are you in? I just need a quick chat.’

I don’t, Imogen thought, panicked. She knew what that chat would involve, and she wasn’t doing that today.

A few more knocks and he gave up, shoving a letter under her door. Imogen checked the contents to find out what she already knew. The rent was overdue by three days.

Her heart sank a little lower as she threw the letter on the counter. She had some of it. If Lou texted, she’d have almost all of it. If she could find a few bits to sell in the flat, she might be alright, for this month at least. Next month was another matter altogether.

Imogen took a long sip of tea. Everything always looked better after a cup of tea, she decided. But what came with the tea was not hope, but a craving for a biscuit. And of course, she was out.