‘You’re a treasure,’ he said, reaching up for the delicate china cup of tea with a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand.

‘It’s my pleasure, Arthur,’ she replied in the overly loud voice she always had to use with the partially deaf octogenarian.

‘Did you leave the teabag in?’ he asked. ‘You know I don’t like it when it’s weak as dishwater.’

‘Yes. Teabag’s in there, Arthur.’

‘Lovely.’ He brought the cup up to his lips and took a loud slurp. ‘Nice and hot, too,’ he said approvingly. ‘You make a good cup of tea, Nicole.’

‘Would you like a couple of biscuits with that?’

‘Custard creams?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Let me go and check what you’ve got in the cupboard.’ Nicole left the sitting room and made her way down the narrow hallway – with its flowered wallpaper and framed prints of the countryside – to the kitchen. This room was where you really felt like time had jumped back several decades, with its ugly brown wall tiles and sludge-green Formica kitchen units. The whole place was dingy. Probably hadn’t been decorated since 1972.

She opened the larder door and shuddered as a family of silverfish scuttled beneath the floorboards to hide from the unexpected shaft of daylight. The biscuit tin sat on the third shelf up – a faded red and black metal box with a picture of a man in a kilt playing the bagpipes, which had once, long ago, contained Highland shortbread. Prising open the scratched lid, she saw that Arthur was in luck as the last carer had bought a selection of the old man’s favourites – custard creams, jammy dodgers and bourbon biscuits.

Nicole scooped out a couple of the creams, replaced the lid and stuck the tin back on the shelf. Then she closed the larder door and opened one of the kitchen units, selecting a rose-patterned china plate. When she’d first started working here, six months ago, she hadn’t known how particular Arthur was about having his tea and biscuits out of the right cup and plate. Apparently, his wife had always insisted on proper china, and now he did it to honour her memory. Nicole thought it was a load of sentimental crap. His wife was dead and couldn’t give two shits whether he ate off bone china, or stuck his face directly into the biscuit tin.

‘Here you go,’ she said brightly, plastering a smile on her face as she returned to the sitting room. ‘Custard creams.’

‘Wonderful.’ He smiled and patted her hand as she set the plate down next to him on the lace-doily which adorned the wooden side table. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pointing to the faded flowery armchair opposite him.

Nicole sat gingerly on the edge of the musty chair. Why were all old people obsessed with flowers? Flowered cups, plates, carpets, tiles, wallpaper, furniture – everything was covered in frigging flowers. It was depressing.

‘Have you got yourself a cup of tea and some biscuits, too?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to sit here eating and drinking while you go without. You look like a skinny, young thing, what I can see of you. You could do with feeding up.’

‘Thanks, but no. I had a late lunch, Arthur.’ She patted her stomach to show how full up she was, momentarily forgetting that he was registered blind and probably couldn’t see her anyway.

‘Did I ever tell you about my Margaret’s homemade biscuits?’ he said.

Only about five thousand times. ‘She liked to bake did she?’

‘Best biscuits you ever tasted,’ he said. ‘Not like the shop-bought rubbish you get nowadays.’

Still, you don’t mind shoving shop-bought custard creams in your fat gob, these days, do you, Arthur? ‘Lovely. Sounds like you were lucky.’

‘I was, I was, I don’t mind telling you. And the smell of those biscuits when they came out of the oven – like heaven it was. She’d stand there, with her oven gloves on, slapping my hand away if I tried to pinch one before they’d cooled down. “You’ll burn your mouth, Artie,” she used to say. “It’ll be worth it,” I’d reply. And it wasn’t just biscuits, either – She’d bake Victoria sponges, scones, rock cakes…’

Arthur had about five favourite memories of his wife that he liked to recount on a loop, over and over again like a stuck record. And Nicole was the mug who was expected to sit and listen and pretend to be interested. Honestly, his wife was the lucky one now – at least she didn’t have to put up with his droning voice going on and on any more. Some days, Nicole thought, if he didn’t shut up, she’d bash him on the head with one of his stupid dead wife’s tacky china figurines. For Christ sake, she was nineteen, supposed to be out there having fun, not sitting in a decrepit old person's house trying to stop her ears bleeding with boredom.

To make matters worse, she still hadn’t found anything of any value, and she’d looked everywhere, in all the usual places – under the mattress, in the larder, the wardrobe, chest of drawers, bathroom cabinet. But, so far, nada, zip, zilch. Just some pictures of his ugly, dead wife. He had to have some valuables stashed somewhere. He lived in a swanky house on a posh road – one day soon, she’d have a house like this, only it wouldn’t smell of cabbage and farts.

Old fogies like him always kept cash at home, didn’t they? They didn’t trust the banks to look after it properly. Arthur had moaned about them enough times. But where did he keep it? That was the question. Where did he hide all his lovely money? It was the only reason she’d taken this crappy carer job – the pay was shit, so she had to make it worth her while somehow. And anyway, Arthur wasn’t ever going to spend it. He’d pop his clogs soon enough. He had no kids – probably leave it all to some ridiculous cat charity.

She couldn’t believe how many of these old gits and miserable old biddies were living out their lonely days, sitting on stacks of money, rattling around in their big, old houses all by themselves, pristine cars in the garage that they never drove, while she had sod all. Some well-meaning person had decided that it was better for them to stay in their massive houses – apparently, they’d live longer and feel more secure and comfortable. Sod that. Stick ’em all in care homes and let other people have their houses. People like Nicole who was living in a grotty bedsit that stank of fish. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

No, Arthur had had his life. Now, it was her turn.

He was still yammering away, but Nicole had perfected the art of saying yes and no, without actually listening. She stifled a yawn and checked the time on the gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece. That tacky piece of shit was probably worth at least a hundred quid, but it was too obvious. He’d notice if it went missing. She needed to be clever about things and not get herself in trouble with her employers, or with the law. She was smart. She’d figure it out.

‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ Arthur said, deviating from his usual boring monologue.

Nicole made appropriate sounds of interest.

‘You’re my favourite,’ he said. ‘Out of all the people who come here and look after me, you’re the only one who’s interested in my stories. The only one who really listens, or who makes my tea just the way I like it. You’re a good girl, Nicole. If I’d ever had a daughter or granddaughter, I’d have wanted her to be like you.’

Nicole wasn’t used to hearing words like this spoken about her. Sentimental old codger, she thought. Just shows what a crap judge of character you are. ‘Thank you, Arthur,’ she said, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze, ‘that means a lot. You know I haven’t got a family of my own, so maybe we could pretend? You could be my fake grandad if you like.’

‘I’d like that very much,’ he said, wiping a tear from his rheumy eyes. ‘And, also, I’d like you to know something important… I’ve changed my Will.’

Nicole’s heartbeats sped up as she held her breath waiting for his next sentence.

‘I’m going to leave you a little something. Not too much, don’t get excited, but enough to maybe help you put a deposit down on your own house.’

Yesss! Nicole tried hard not to show her excitement.

‘I know how difficult you youngsters find it today, what with the house prices and the cost of living, so this little windfall will help you along. And then, maybe, when you’re settled with a family of your own, you’ll look back fondly on old Arthur, and I won’t be completely forgotten about.’

‘Arthur! I can’t believe it. You really didn’t have to—’

‘Nonsense. It’s my pleasure, dear. I wanted to tell you myself. I wanted you to know how much you’re appreciated.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning forward and kissing his cheek. ‘You’re a sweetheart, Arthur. A real gentleman.’ She knew he loved to be called a gentleman. It was something he prided himself on. In Arthur’s world, there were three types of men – layabouts, oafs and gentlemen.

Now… she just had to wait for the old fucker to die.