Wyatt's Magical Wardrobe || ONC 2024

[One]

I'm seeing it, but I'm not quite believing it. The amount of zero's after the five is absolutely bonkers!

I can't stop looking at my bank account while I wait for my bestie, Becks. I'm almost scared that if I log out, it'll all disappear—or perhaps I'll wake up. Because this must be a dream.

Some random stranger walks past the table I'm seated at and I instantly lock my screen. I know I'm being dramatic, but all this money has suddenly made me paranoid. Once the coast is clear, I unlock my phone. It's still there, phew. 

Then, out of nowhere, my long ponytail gets yanked, making me flinch. I look up to find Becks’s smiling face hovering over me. Annoying cow, she's always pulling my bloody hair. I would reciprocate, but she has a pixie cut. Maybe I should just whack her on the head—might try that later.

"Wy, please tell me you've already ordered, because my ass wipe of a boss needs me back in twenty," is the first thing she says to me.

"Of course, I even ordered a dessert to share."

"Ooh fancy, what are we celebrating?" she asks.

"That you'll be quitting your job today," I say and smile like a deranged loony.

"I wish, no, really? And stop weirding me out with that creepy smile,” she replies. 

I hold up my phone right in front of her face. She takes a moment, but once she realises what she's staring at, she freezes. Her wide dark brown eyes go from the screen to my equally crazy looking blue eyes, then back to that outrageous number, then back to me again.

"Shut the front door!"

I scan the cafe and lower my voice to a whisper. "I won the national lottery."

"Holy shit, Wyatt!"

"Keep your voice down, you daft cow. We don't want every Tom, Dick and Harry knowing I'm a freaking millionaire," I whisper shout.

"Well, that's definitely worth a shared dessert, you cheap tosser."

We stare at each other and burst out laughing. Our insults are all in good fun, we really love each other to death. Having her by my side when my mum passed was a godsend. She's my sister from another mister, my ride or die. But giving each other crap is almost like breathing, an absolute necessity. 

"Careful, or I won't buy you your own tattoo parlour," I threaten. 

"Excuse me, you are not wasting that money on me."

"Oh yes, I am. And I'm not wasting it. You're the best tattoo artist in Ipswich and you deserve your own shop. Your dickhead boss can go jump," I say.

"Seriously, Wy, I'm not taking your money. Buy me my own dessert and we're good," she says, smiling at me.

"When we've had lunch with our shared dessert, we're going tattoo parlour shopping, and that's that. Otherwise I'll unfriend you, block you and key your car," I say in my most serious tone. 

“Woah, money has turned you aggressive,” she says, holding up her hands in defeat. “ I love it."

The server interrupts us and sets down our iced coffees and croissants that are overflowing with melted cheesy goodness.

"So you'll stop being a princess and go real estate shopping with me this afternoon?" I ask when we're alone again.

She takes a massive bite and replies to me through her chewing—classy. "First, we get day drunk, then we go."

I haven't been day drunk since my wasted Uni days, and when I say wasted, I mean thousands of pounds down the drain over my unfinished teaching degree. Because who am I kidding, I would’ve made the worst teacher imaginable. 

"I concur, tequila shots, then let's go spend a few thousand pounds."

Once our dessert is demolished, mainly by greedy guts sitting across from me, we head out to the king’s Arms pub about five doors down. Not our first choice, but it'll do.

It's a dark shithole with a handful of patrons. All old men drinking ale. I suppose it is only one in the afternoon. Half an hour after, Becks was meant to return to work. Her boss is going to be so pissed, and not in a good way. 

Once we're sitting comfortably at the bar, we order ten shots and a round of beers for the old fellas, because, why not? They toast us, then get stuck in, as do we. By the time we've downed all the shots, I feel warm and tingly. I can't remember the last time I had tequila, it’s going straight to my head. I think I'm doing okay—until I stand up, that is.

Once we're well and truly day drunk, we give our new friends a hug before we head out the door. One of the cheeky grandpas gives my butt a good squeeze, but I let it slide. I'm in too much of a jovial mood to get worked up. I’m a fun drunk.

The brightness of the day takes us by surprise, but we adjust quickly and head for the nearest real estate agent. It doesn't take us long to get distracted. The thrift shop has a wedding dress in the window and Becks wants to try it on. She doesn't even have a boyfriend, but okay.

It's too tight, but she looks great with her dark features and colourful tattoos on display. The lady behind the counter isn't sure what to make of us as Becks tosses a fake flower bouquet at me.

"Come on, you silly tart, get that dress off. We've got work to do. Ooh, an omelette maker." 

We leave the store with my omelette pan and a veil for Becks, because even though the dress didn't fit, the veil was fine. Makes sense, I suppose. 

An hour, a moon hopper and a few bags full of crap later, and we're finally looking at business spaces in the real estate office window.

"That one looks good," I say, pointing to a cute little shop with a cupcake in the window. 

"That's a bakery, you numpty. And it's an hour away. But this here looks promising." She points at a little cottage that is advertised as home and business. 

We keep looking in case something better catches our eye. And that's when I see it. It's beautiful, old and big. It's practically a mansion, it'd need work, but what a steal. I know alarm bells should ring in my head at how cheap it is. But all I can think about is the possibility of a bed-and-breakfast. Plus, I have money to fix things now.

"I want this one," she says, pointing to the cottage. 

"And I want this one," I say, pointing to the old mansion.

She looks and nods her head. "I approve."

"Well, let's put on our big girl panties and buy us some real estate," I say.

I should probably be concerned that the agent accepted an offer and signature on contracts from inebriated buyers. But that's a problem for future Wyatt.

Word count: 1178