A Cold Winter's Heart

Keeping track of her lies had become a full time job. Ellie sat on the end of her bed, hairdryer in one hand, her phone in the other. A dirty-blond bird's nest formed on the side of her head as she scrolled through her notes app trying to decipher her frantic memos:

89 bday not 83

bro in the SAS??? vgn 3 yrs

Marathon 2019 & spk French

morning person 5am! :o

Had she really told him her brother was in the special forces? Heat accumulated on her scalp. Ellie yelped and swapped hands.

The most troublesome lie was her age; everyone said she didn't look forty but looks weren't the problem. It was the cultural references. What childhood TV shows she would have watched, what year she'd started school. Sooner or later she'd trip up and Tom would see her for the fraud she was.

She locked her phone and bent forward, hair dangling between her legs. The dryer roared in her ears. She wore an oversized T-shirt, damp patches darkened her shoulders.

She would confess. Tonight.

Ellie dressed, placing the T-shirt carefully on the radiator, the graphic had long since faded; she still slept in his clothes, though they'd lost their scent years ago. She opened the curtains.

Shit.

Snow crowned the drystone wall in her front garden. Across the road, sheep huddled together in the field, the horizon indistinguishable from the sky.

Her phone pinged.

ALL TRAINS CANCELLED DUE TO WEATHER CONDITIONS.

She stared at the notification, then at the weekend bag already packed by the door. What would he think if she cancelled again? It was hard enough to find time for them both to meet.

She could drive, but that meant a five hour trip South through a snow storm. And she'd have to drive along that road. She swallowed, turning away from the window.

No. She wouldn't drive. She headed downstairs.

Ellie re-wrote her message to Tom three times before deleting all the words and sending a sad emoji instead. She followed this with a screenshot of her cancelled train, then set the phone face-down on the counter.

The kettle clicked off. Ellie poured water over her teabag, watching the amber spread through the mug. She added a splash of milk, and a heaped teaspoon of sugar.

Her phone vibrated.

Aw no. Was really looking forward to seeing you. We'll reschedule. xx

I know, me too. I'm sorry! x

She settled onto the sofa, mug of tea cooling on the coffee table. We could do a virtual date instead?

Yes! Let's do it. Reminds me of covid, remember when we were all stuck inside?

Yeah. She typed, then hesitated. She'd been married during Covid. Living in this house, sitting by the fire each day playing cards, watching the world shut down on the TV. Feels like a lifetime ago.

Tom didn't respond for a few minutes, so Ellie sipped at her tea. The living room was cavernous around her. She reached for the remote and flicked through to the news channel, settling back into the cushions as the presenter's voice filled the room.

Her phone buzzed: Confession time.

Ellie's stomach dropped. Was he about to call her out?

The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Ellie gripped her phone tighter.

I shouldn't admit this, but during covid I started watching Gossip Girl… Ended up binge watching all 6 seasons! How sad am I?

Ellie signed in relief, he hadn’t caught on to her lies. She paused. When did that show come out? 2007? If she was thirty-six, not forty-two, she would have been eighteen. Perfect age for trashy teen drama.

Oh god yes! I was obsessed with it at uni x Ellie chewed her lip as she waited for a response.

We should watch it together sometime.

Phew. Crisis averted. I'd like that.

I have a surprise for you later btw ;)

Her stomach fluttered. What kind of surprise?

You'll see. What are you up to today?

Working on my presentation.

Oh, is that today? You're going to smash it.

Warmth spread through her chest. Thanks. I hate that it's online though. I just hope they donate.

They will, I'm sure! You can tell me all about it tonight. Shall we say 7? I'll call you?

It's a date.

The snow fell heavier by late-afternoon. Ellie trudged back from the village shop, the bags cutting into her fingers through her gloves. The presentation had gone better than she’d hoped. Afterwards, Ellie had refreshed the charity page a dozen times, watching the donations flood in. As she approached her home, she detoured to knock on Mrs. Greensmith's door.

"Oh, you are very kind!" Mrs. Greensmith smiled, taking the shopping bags. She wore a thick green cardigan that clashed with her red socks. "Did you remember the pease pudding?"

"Would I forget?"

"And those turkey dinosaurs?"

"Two bags."

"Wonderful! They cook best in the air fryer, the dinosaurs." Mrs. Greensmith's placed her bags on the floor behind her and tucked her hands into her armpits "Why don’t you join me?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m calling Tom tonight.”

“Ah,” her eyes narrowed, “When am I going to meet this new fella?"

Here we go. "Why? So you can vet him?"

"I’m an excellent judge of character, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” Mrs Greensmith had suspected Mr Peters, who lived two doors down, was having an affair two weeks before his wife had found out.

“And I don’t like all this online business,” She continued, “People tell all sorts of lies.”

Ellie’s stomach tightened. “Some people exaggerate a bit.”

Mrs Greensmith leaned in conspiratorially. "They had a whole documentary last week. This woman pretended to be a famous actress and managed to convince five men to send her money!”

“Really?” Ellie frowned. Even she hadn’t gone that far.

“But your Tom sounds like a nice man.”

“He is.”

“It’s about time you found someone decent. And handsome!” Mrs Greensmith laughed, then disappeared inside, returning with a tin wrapped in a tea towel. "I've baked some ginger cake. Have some."

The smell hit Ellie immediately, warm and spiced.

Mrs. Greensmith thrust it into her hands. "You take care, love.”

"You too.”

Inside, Ellie kicked off her boots and unpacked the shopping. She slid her pasta for one into the microwave and poured herself a glass of wine. The Merlot warmed her throat as she swallowed. While the microwave hummed, she flipped open her laptop and refreshed the donations page.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

Three thousand pounds. Tom had donated three thousand pounds.

Guilt twisted through her chest. He'd given her so much. Yet she'd undermined his kindness with silly, stupid lies.

He deserved better than her invented version of herself.

He deserved the truth.

Her phone rang.

"Tom!"

"Did you see it?" His voice was warm, excited.

"I did. I- I don’t know what to say.”

"You don't have to say anything. You’ve worked hard Ellie, you deserve this.”

“Thank you.”

“Tell me about your day."

They fell into easy conversation. He made her laugh with a story about his coworker. She told him about Mrs. Greensmith's Air Fryer obsession. It was nice to laugh. Nice to feel normal again, after so long alone.

Ellie poured another glass of wine. Red droplets splashed onto her coffee table. She didn’t wipe them away.

"Tom?" Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended.

"Yeah?"

"I need to tell you something."

"Okay..." He sounded curious, not concerned.

Ellie’s stomach twisted, she took a gulp of wine. She could still turn back. Keep things as they were. Stay in this warm bubble where someone laughed at her jokes and remembered to ask about her day.

But the alcohol had unlocked something. The words were coming whether she wanted them to or not.

"I haven't been-" She stopped. Started again. "There are things I haven't told you. About myself."

Silence.

"I didn't run a marathon. That was a lie. I can barely manage a 5k. And my brother, he's not in the millitary, he's not- he just works at McDonald's and I don't know why I said that, it was stupid." The words tumbled faster now. "I'm not vegan either. I eat meat all the time. And French, I can barely order a coffee, I just- I wanted to sound interesting."

"Ellie-"

"And I'm not a morning person, I hate mornings, I-" She was babbling now, couldn't stop. "I'm not thirty-six."

"How old are you?" His voice had changed. Flatter.

"Forty-two." Her throat tightened. "I'm forty-two, Tom."

The silence stretched.

“I thought if I made myself sound younger, more interesting, someone might actually-"

She broke off. God, she sounded pathetic. She could hear him breathing.

"Tom? Please say something."

"Forty-two." He said it like he was testing the word.

"I'm so sorry. I should have-"

The line went dead.

"Tom?" She pulled the phone away from her ear, stared at the ended call. "Tom?"

She tried calling back. Straight to voicemail.

Ellie sat in the growing dark, the fire crackling. Outside, snow continued to fall, burying everything clean and white.

She typed a message: I'm sorry. Please can we talk about this?

She waited. No response.

The tears came then. Of course. Of course this was how it ended. She'd finally opened up, finally been honest, and he'd run. Just like she'd feared. She was too old, too damaged, too much of a mess.

She was alone again.

Miguel Santos sat on his tiny balcony, the Portuguese sun warming his shoulders, and watched his daughters play in the courtyard below. Rosa, six, and Ana, four, chasing each other around the fountain in their worn sundresses. Hand-me-downs from their cousins.

"Papa, come play!" Rosa called up.

"Soon, baby." He blew them a kiss.

He turned back to his laptop, cracking his knuckles. Right. Let's see.

He pulled up the security question screen.

What was the name of your first pet?

Easy. Meatball.

Please confirm your age.

Ok, forty-two years old. Born in 1983, then. He typed in the new birth year and hit enter. Months of careful conversations, dropping questions about her childhood, her interests. She'd been lying the whole time. No wonder he'd struggled so much.

The screen changed.

"Bingo," he whispered.

He was in.

He'd accessed her current account weeks ago, but this was the big prize. The charity account. The one that had given him trouble.

His eyes widened.

Seventy-eight thousand pounds, more than enough to clear his debts. She must have dumped most of her dead husband's payout into this grief project. Support for widows and children who'd lost someone. Trying to make meaning out of tragedy. But who was looking out for Miguel? Who would give him support?

He opened both accounts side by side. He'd drain them simultaneously, before she could react. She was bound to get a notification of the transfer.

His phone buzzed.

I'm sorry. Please can we talk about this?

I know I messed up. But everything else was real. My feelings for you are real.

Tom, please.

He deleted his profiles. Facebook, Instagram, the dating app. Wiped his browsing history. Tom Anderson gone in seconds.

He hovered the mouse over the confirm button.

He clicked.

Transfer complete.

It had only taken six months, a few trips to London where he'd pretended to live. Cost him an arm and a leg to rent an apartment, but it had been enough to earn her trust.

His phone buzzed again.

Something's wrong with my bank account. Tom, did something happen? Please call me.

Miguel stood and stretched. He grabbed the football from inside. "Rosa! Ana! Papa's coming down!"

Their delighted screams echoed off the courtyard walls.

Halfway down the stairs, his phone bipped again. He paused, checked it.

PLEASE. My charity account is empty. Everything's gone. Tom, if you know anything, PLEASE. That money was for grieving families. For children who lost parents. PLEASE.

He deleted the message and blocked the number.

The afternoon sun beat down on Lisbon. Rosa and Ana ran toward him, arms outstretched, faces bright with joy.

"Papa! You came!"

"Of course I came." He scooped Ana up, settled the ball under his arm.

"Ready to play?"

"Ready!"

He kicked the ball gently toward Rosa. She shrieked with laughter, chasing it across the courtyard.

Miguel Santos played with his daughters, Ellie Morrison already forgotten.