Chapter Fifteen Jade
Chapter Fifteen
Jade
I shove a slice of pale white bread into the toaster and push the lever down.
The whole counter is scattered with the remnants of a half-arsed attempt at lunch – cheese slices, a bit of squashy tomato, and a supermarket tub of margarine.
I fumble with the lid, and the foil cover snaps open with a metallic burp, slicing across the side of my ring finger. ‘Shit,’ I hiss, cradling my hand.
The cut stings in a sharp, sudden way, tiny beads of red swelling and then dripping anaemically down towards my wrist. I shove my finger between my lips until the pain lessens, like Mum told me to do when I was a kid.
For a second, I remember her soothing voice, her hands, the way she’d hold me tight whenever I hurt myself.
Now, she just finds new ways to criticise me.
Her silhouette fills the doorway, arms folded over her dressing gown, one eyebrow raised. ‘Are you bleeding all over the food again?’
I grab a sheet of kitchen roll, wrap it around my finger, and glare. ‘It’s not on the food. It’s fine.’
She tuts, shakes her head, and marches forward.
Before Mum can get a word in, my phone buzzes, and for a second, the tension shatters – a notification, a lifeline, a promise of somewhere better.
I wrench my phone out of my hoodie pocket, dropping but then catching it with my good hand.
The world goes quiet as I see the sender – Harringtons, the agency I begged for an internship.
My pulse spikes. Maybe this is it, the golden email, the start of my real life.
I thumb open the message, scrolling straight to the body.
It doesn’t even pretend to be personal. ‘Thank you for your application, but we regret to inform you that, after careful consideration, your skills and experience do not currently match our requirements . . .’ I whisper the words aloud, numb, then let my head droop.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The toaster explodes my bread into the air just at that moment, as if even it feels my humiliation and needs to punctuate it. ‘Another bloody rejection,’ I mutter, voice flat as a pancake. I collapse into one of the vinyl kitchen chairs.
Mum steps forward. ‘Well, it’s hardly surprising, is it? Are you going to clear up this mess?’
I ball up the bloody tissue, lob it at the bin, and miss by a mile.
I reach for my phone again, fingers trembling, and scroll numbly through my inbox.
Just more automated rejections, more notifications from job boards, reminders I’m never going to escape.
Every ping is a fresh cut. ‘Thanks for the sympathy.’ I don’t bother to hide the sarcasm.
She ignores it, bringing the toastie I abandoned and parking it in front of me. Then she dramatically loosens her dressing gown and slides into the chair opposite.
For a second, we just watch each other.
‘I am sympathetic,’ she eventually responds, sounding anything but.
‘Could’ve fooled me.’ I pick at the crust of my toastie.
She opens her mouth, changes her mind, then tries again. ‘But—’
‘Oh, here we go.’ I cut her off, feeling the pressure rise up my spine, setting my teeth on edge.
She presses her lips together, then powers through. ‘But,’ she continues, ‘you barely scraped your GCSEs, and your CV’s just . . . what, odd jobs followed by four years of pulling pints? Why would any interior design firm want to hire you?’
I want to scream. Instead, I fish for something to say, anything that sounds less pathetic than the truth. ‘Because . . . I’m creative. I have life experience, I know how to talk to people. I’m . . .’ I search for another, more compelling word, ‘hard-working.’ I force myself to meet her eyes.
Mum’s nose wrinkles. She exhales. ‘Jade, my darling, I love you dearly, but please, since when are you creative? And I hate to break it to you, but you are not the most hard-working person I’ve ever met.’
I flare my nostrils. ‘Fine, so I don’t have a degree or other fancy qualifications.
Maybe I’d be more motivated if I had something worth working towards.
But no one will even give me a chance. How do you get experience if no one will give you experience?
I’m not even asking for any payment! I’d be giving them free labour.
I just need a short internship to get me started. ’
Mum clicks her tongue. ‘It’s hardly free labour. Training people is a pain in the backside. I should know – I had to train you.’
‘Very funny.’ I think back to those early days when Mum kept losing her shit over all the little mistakes I made. Maybe she has a point.
‘It’s all very competitive these days,’ Mum adds unhelpfully.
‘Tell me about it,’ I grumble.
‘If you’re really serious, you need basic qualifications – do a course, build a . . . a whatchamacallit . . . a portfolio. Have you actually ever designed anything?’
I want to argue, but she’s right. I have nothing but desperation and a folder of half-baked ideas, all screenshots and Pinterest boards and daydreams.
‘Surely they must have programs online where you can create something,’ she continues. ‘They have these apps where you can design a room. Why don’t you do that?’
Why don’t you do that? I mimic her words in my head.
Ugh, I feel like screaming. I know what Mum says is true, but it all just feels so hard, so long-winded, so impossible.
I stare at my phone and will the rejection emails to set themselves on fire.
The longer I sit here, the more the room closes in.
The smell of the burnt toast. The ancient whirr of the fridge.
The pressure of Mum’s relentless, suffocating interest.
‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she announces, getting to her feet.
My chest tightens and my vision goes blurry and spotty for a moment.
It feels like a marathon I haven’t trained for.
I’ve already spent endless nights creating an exaggerated CV, trawling through design company websites, drafting letters, researching universities and college courses – none of which I can afford or am qualified for.
I’ll be at retirement age before I get anywhere.
And all the while, the clock is ticking while I watch Bella’s life unfold on Instagram: sunlit café breakfasts, glittering events, champagne laughter.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize next week.
My twin swans around beautiful Lymington like a princess with everything handed to her on a plate, while I’m stuck here in shitty suburbia, sleeping on a couch, scraping by.
The bitterness is a physical taste, sour and thick.
I want to text her, or even just comment something snarky on her latest post, but of course I don’t.
I know I’m only feeling this way because of my frustration.
Instead, I scroll back through the rejection email, reading and rereading the line about my ‘skills and experience’ not ‘matching requirements’, like maybe if I stare at it long enough, the words will change.
As Mum gets up to make a cup of tea, a possibility floats towards me like a lifeline in a choppy ocean.
It’s a cute idea and vaguely reminds me of a storyline in a movie I once saw.
What if I applied for a job – any job – at Newbury’s?
I could look to see if they’re hiring. And then, when I show up at the offices for my interview, I’ll come face to face with Bella, and we can be like – what the hell?
The fantasy grows in my mind – me, walking into Newbury’s offices for an interview to find Bella sitting across a glass conference table.
The moment hangs there, cinematic, like something from a Netflix special.
Will she do a double take? The possibilities spiral out – will it be this cosmic reconnection, the universe righting a wrong?
Will she be speechless? Maybe she’ll cry.
Whatever, it’s a better story than the one I’m living now.
It would make for a great ‘first meeting’ anecdote.
I can picture us telling people later: It was such a crazy coincidence!
What are the chances of my own twin coming in to be interviewed for a job?
Neither of us could believe it. We were stunned.
Local media will want to interview us. Maybe even national.
I shake away my overactive imagination and get back to practicalities.
I’ll probably have to lie heavily on my CV in order to score an interview, but that’s okay because I won’t really be going for the job. I’ll just be using it as a fun way to get to meet my sister.
Mum shuffles back to the table, clutching her tea. ‘What are you up to?’ She eyes me suspiciously.
‘Nothing,’ I reply. But I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips as I open Newbury’s website.
It’s all navy and gold, full of stock photos of people shaking hands and laughing over laptops.
I navigate to their Careers page. There’s a load of waffle about ‘Being Exceptional and Building a Bright Future’, but I scroll on until I reach the Positions Available section, where there are two jobs listed.
One: Senior Negotiator, requirements laughably out of my league.
Two: Internship, open to ‘passionate individuals with a keen interest in property and customer service’.
I feel a small pulse of hope. I could be passionate.
I could show a keen interest in property.
Despite my lack of success applying for other internships, I’m optimistic about this one.
It feels as though it’s fate that I was rejected by the others, because I was meant to apply for this one.
And when Bella and I do finally meet, perhaps she’ll even offer me a proper paid job with the company. It would be perfect.
I lean back in my seat and take another bite of my cheese toastie, feeling the first swell of proper excitement I’ve had in months. In years.
I glance up at Mum, who’s now sipping her tea and scrolling on her phone.
I get up from the table, carry my plate to the sink, and retreat to the sofa where I pull up my CV – the one I’ve been ‘customising’ for every different application, made up of equal parts truth, exaggeration, and outright fiction.
I start tweaking. ‘Barmaid’ becomes ‘Licensed Beverage Consultant’.
I invent a few more extracurriculars: volunteered at local food bank, coordinated pub-quiz nights, mentored new recruits.
It’s not exactly a crime, I reason, if I’m only trying to get a foot in the door so that I can reunite with my long-lost sister.
The next part takes longer. ‘Why do you want to work for Newbury’s?
’ the site asks. I stare at the blinking cursor, willing it to answer for me.
I type: ‘I have always admired Newbury’s innovative approach to customer relationships and value your commitment to supporting young people within the community.
’ I delete it and try again: ‘My lifelong interest in property, combined with experience handling high-pressure customer service situations, makes me uniquely suited to the team.’ I delete that, too.
Try again: ‘I believe I would be a perfect fit for the friendly, ambitious culture at Newbury’s, and am eager to learn from the best in the field.
’ It’s all bullshit, but it’s the kind of bullshit professionals like. At least I hope it is.
I attach my Frankenstein’s monster of a CV, triple-check my email address, and hover over the submit button.
Maybe I should give it the overnight test. It’s probably best to let it marinate for a while.
My finger trembles. I think of Bella’s Instagram page, of her glossy, unbothered smile.
I think of Mum, probably already drafting a group chat update for her friends about my latest ‘failure’.
I think of the possibility, however slim, that I could actually get an interview.
That I could actually meet my twin up close, like looking in a mirror for the first time.
I hit submit before I can overthink it, then slam my laptop shut. There’s a jolt of panic, but also a strange excitement, like the first drop on a roller coaster. I hug my knees to my chest and let the anticipation fizz through me while I wait for my sister to respond.
I think this could turn my life around. I think this might be amazing.