Page 8 of The Retreat

Imogen had applied for everything. Cafes. Retail stores. Even the vape kiosk at the shopping centre. Every application was met with ‘overqualified’ or ‘underqualified.’ Sometimes, no words at all—just silence.

She was starting to take it personally. Starting to wonder if there was something about her that people could sense the moment they looked at her CV. Something invisible and off-putting, something wrong.

Rent day was a few weeks off. And it was hanging over her like a shadow. The thousand pounds Talia had transferred had stretched as far as it could go, but that was gone now. Yet another rent day was on its way.

Imogen lay on her bed in the middle of the afternoon, staring blankly at the ceiling. The hum of traffic from the street below barely registered. She could feel the panic beginning to rise.

Her eyes roamed across the small room, the mismatched furniture, the half-finished laundry piled in the corner. There was nothing left. Nothing more she could sell. No one she could call. She had nowhere else to go.

Her parents, living in their retirement community, had no space to offer. Even if they did, they wouldn’t. They were nice enough, but there was a limit to their generosity.

They’d always said she needed to get a real job, that art curation was a dream she needed to wake up from. She hadn’t listened. They would be thrilled to find out they’d been right, but not enough to extend a helping hand. All she ever got from them was lectures that utilised the phrase, ‘Pull yourself up by your bootstraps,’ repeatedly.

So who else? There were her friends. Her good friends, the ones who still checked in, who sent texts now and then. But they had families now, homes full of spouses, kids, pets, commitments. They were settled. They wouldn’t want Imogen’s failure on their couches.

She’d never been here before. Not this close to the edge. It was, well, there was only one word for it. Terrifying.

And then came the knock.

She froze. For a moment, she didn’t breathe. Could it be her landlord? Rent day was not here, but maybe he’d had enough of her general fecklessness and was booting her out.

Another knock. This time, firmer.

Imogen dragged herself off the bed and padded to the front door. She felt like she was walking to her doom. Even if it wasn’t the landlord, it would be some other bad news.

When she pulled it open, it was bad beyond all imagining.

Talia. At her door.

‘Wait, what?’ Imogen said, more to herself than Talia.

Talia’s hands were stuffed into the pockets of her black trench coat. ‘Hi,’ she said quietly.

‘You can’t have the money back. It’s gone,’ Imogen told her quickly.

Talia exhaled sharply. ‘No, no. I’m not here for that.’ Her eyes flickered from Imogen’s face to the ground, then back again. ‘I need a favour,’ she said.

Imogen let out a sharp laugh, harsh and bitter. ‘A favour?’

But Talia wasn’t laughing. ‘Just let me explain,’ she said quickly. ‘Please.’

Imogen wondered if she should simply slam the door. But there was something in Talia’s eyes that made Imogen hesitate. The rage that had boiled up in her the last time they spoke wasn’t there anymore. Instead, there was something more vulnerable. Scared, even.