Chapter Sixteen Jade
Chapter Sixteen
Jade
I’m slouched on the sofa, eating a Snickers, scrolling on my phone, bored, frustrated and antsy.
I tried watching TV, but I can’t seem to concentrate on anything.
Mum’s on a double shift today so the flat is quiet and empty.
She left a note on the counter about defrosting chicken Kievs for tea, but even the promise of carbs later can’t unstick me from this mood.
I can’t go and see Zac because he’s still in Devon, at the world’s most tragic family get-together – his words, not mine, though I agree with him.
He’s apparently stuck in a cottage with no Wi-Fi and three generations of relatives all trying to tell the same stories, and he keeps texting me updates about his existential agony, but I haven’t replied to any of them.
I know if I do, he’ll call me, and I don’t want to hear his voice right now.
He asked if I wanted to go along on the trip, but I couldn’t think of anything worse, so I told him I had to work.
Actually, the real reason I didn’t go is because I know his parents don’t like me, and I don’t think I could have stood days of forced politeness.
Zac always tells me I’m imagining their dislike of me, but I know I’m not wrong.
Maybe I should have gone just to spite them.
It would be better than this desperate feeling of hanging around and waiting for my life to begin.
I toss my phone on to the sofa, harder than necessary, so it slips and lands screen-down in a pool of toast crumbs.
I almost want it to break – then at least I’d have a new problem, something tangible instead of this endless gnawing at the base of my stomach.
Normally I love a bit of daytime TV or TikTok scrolling, but lately I just can’t seem to drum up any enthusiasm.
I lean back, wedge my hands under my thighs, and stare at the ceiling, tracing the cracks where Mum’s last attempt at DIY filling has already started to flake.
I try to tell myself that it’s just the change in seasons.
That I always get like this at the end of summer, when the air turns damp and the mornings smell of leaf mould and the shops start putting Halloween stuff on the shelves.
Mum always says autumn is her favourite, that it feels like a reset, but for me it’s the opposite – a slow, claustrophobic tightening, a warning that sooner or later everything will grow cold and freeze.
But it’s not really the weather, or Zac’s absence, that’s got me so twitchy.
No, it’s the fact that I’m still in limbo.
The fact that, despite all my big ideas and best intentions, nothing has changed.
It’s been two full weeks since I submitted my application to Newbury’s, and in that time I’ve checked my email about a thousand times, sometimes waking up at 3 a.m. to do it, just in case some late-night HR person is working overtime and has decided to send me a letter of acceptance.
But every time, all I see is the same junk mail – offers for hair removal, debt consolidation, the occasional desperate voucher from the pizza place down the road.
I reach for my phone again, unable to stop myself opening Gmail for the fourteenth time today and staring at the empty inbox, as if I might will a reply into existence through sheer force of disappointment.
I click the search bar and type ‘Newburys’ again, just to make sure I haven’t missed anything, but all that comes up is the original automated receipt, cold and impersonal.
‘Thank you for your interest in our internship programme. We will contact you if your application is successful.’ I know this email by heart. I could recite it word for word.
I open up my CV and read through it for the millionth time.
It’s good – more than good. Definitely worth an interview.
Why haven’t they responded? I read it through again – there’s nothing new to add, but it’s become a nervous habit, like checking your hair in every passing reflection.
I scroll through, looking for missed typos or pieces of information I could punch up, but it’s already been through the wringer a dozen times.
My finger freezes on the line that says ‘Excellent interpersonal skills’.
The irony is so sharp it’s almost funny.
I can hardly manage to call a company without my hands shaking, but here I am pretending to be the kind of person who wows people at parties and can schmooze with the best of them.
I should probably just accept that I’m not cut out for this, that I’ll be stuck at the pub forever, pulling pints and listening to Mags complain about the dishwasher.
I almost laugh, but the sound catches in my throat.
It can’t hurt to call them, can it? Check they received my application.
I inhale and try to stay calm. I don’t normally get nervous, so why do I feel so clammy and short of breath?
It must be because this is such a big deal to me.
This is about meeting my twin sister. About us finding each other after years of being separated. It’s no wonder I’m freaking out.
Every time I imagine it, the details change, but the sensation is always the same – a nervous, electric hope that fizzes in my chest and makes the whole world feel slightly out of step.
It’s ridiculous, of course. I know that.
I’m not twelve anymore. Separated-at-birth twins in real life don’t get happy endings.
But I can’t let go of this idea that if I just get close enough, if I can just find my way inside her orbit, then everything will make sense.
That the jaggedness inside my head will finally smooth out.
That maybe, just maybe, she’s been waiting for me, too.
But I don’t want to just call her or show up out of the blue. I don’t want her to think I’ve tracked her down. I want our meeting to be more natural. That’s why this internship idea feels so right.
I realise I’ve opened Newbury’s website and I’m already on the Contact page. I click on the phone number and wait as it connects and then starts ringing. My heart thumps, but I try to stay calm and channel a professional persona.
The call clicks through to a menu option and I select ‘sales’.
‘Newbury’s, this is Ben Hutton.’ The voice on the end of the line sounds young and posh.
‘Oh, er, hi.’ I curse my bumbling words and try to sound more confident. ‘Sorry, my name’s Jade Morgan, can I speak to Bella Newbury please?’
‘Can I ask what it’s in relation to?’ he says, obviously primed not to put any old pleb through to the boss.
‘Um . . . Yes, it’s about a job application.’ I pause and then add, ‘For the internship.’
‘Oh, right, Talia Benson’s dealing with that. I’ll put you through.’
‘Hold on.’ I try to catch him before he transfers the call.
‘Yes?’
‘I was speaking to Bella,’ I lie, ‘so if you could put me through to her, that would be great.’
‘Hang on. I’ll see if she’s available.’
He puts me on hold and classical music starts playing – something pretty and uplifting. I vaguely recognise it from somewhere. It cuts off abruptly.
‘Hello, this is Bella Newbury, how can I help?’ Her voice is clipped, and not very warm, but my heart flips, nevertheless. This is my sister on the end of the line, and she’s talking to me.
My mouth goes dry, and I wish I had something to drink.
I clear my throat and try my best to sound bubbly yet professional.
‘Hi, my name’s Jade, Jade Morgan, and I applied for your internship position a few weeks ago.
I haven’t heard back yet, but I wondered if I could come in for an interview.
I think I’d be great for the position.’ I figure estate agents like people who are ‘salesy’ so hopefully this might do the trick.
I hope she’ll appreciate my proactiveness.
‘Oh,’ she replies, dismissively. ‘I’m sorry, but the calibre of applicants was very high this year. If you haven’t heard back from us, then I’m afraid you haven’t been successful on this occasion.’
My heart plummets down to the worn carpet beneath my toes. My disappointment isn’t just because the position has gone, it’s because of her tone. She sounds like she’s talking to an unwanted cold caller she can’t wait to get rid of. Like I’m a nobody.
I need to give this another go. ‘That’s a shame,’ I come back with. ‘Do you have any other positions going? Even something short-term, like a week’s work experience?’
‘Are you at school or college?’ she asks.
‘No, I’m in my mid-twenties.’ I’m twenty-eight, but whatever.
‘Sorry, our work-experience slots are only for people in full-time education.’
I’m desperately wracking my brain for something else to say. To win her over. But I can hear in her tone she’s already dismissed me.
‘Maybe you could make an exception?’ I try. ‘I’m a quick learner.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ she says, rudely ending the call, her mind no doubt already on to something else.
I drop my phone in my lap and slump back into the sofa with a grunt.
Suddenly, I feel a spike of anger. Not at myself, but at them – the people who get to decide.
The ones who never have to worry about impressing anyone because their names do the work for them.
Bella Newbury. Even the name sounds like old money.
Who does she think she is? She might be my twin, but she sounded like a right snooty cow.
What was I even thinking, wanting to go and work for her? I bet her employees hate her.
I try not to think about my pathetically naive plan to surprise her.
To see her face when she meets me for the first time.
I try to forget all the imagined conversations I had in my head with her.
About how excited we’d be to have found each other.
I’m such an idiot. Of course she’s not going to be anything like me.
She’s been brought up with wealth and luxury.
I’m just some pleb who happens to share the same genes.
She’ll take one look at me, at my life, and she’ll think I’m a total loser.
She wouldn’t be wrong either. I fist my hands, knuckles whitening.
So that’s it. All those hours spent thinking about our reunion were a complete waste of time.
I get to my feet and pace over to the kitchenette and then across the lounge towards the window.
I stare through it, not really looking at the crappy view of the street, my mind too steeped in disappointment, replaying Bella’s snooty voice in my head.
I mean, logically, she didn’t know who I was, she thought she was talking to a stranger, but I still feel hurt by the rejection.
If this was a movie, we would meet up and have an incredible reunion.
Instead, this is real life and it sucks.
I turn away from the window and sink back down on to the sofa, bored of this room, bored of this city, bored of my life and bored of my thoughts.
Although . . . thinking about it, maybe it wouldn’t have been great to meet on such unequal terms. She’s this hotshot business owner and I’m a nobody.
It might have been humiliating. She might have been embarrassed to have such a loser for a sister.
I might have felt awkward and lesser. Even though I know she’s had a better financial start in life than me, it still might have been a bit humiliating.
Not for the first time, I wish I’d made a bit more of my life. Maybe gone to college or started my own online business or something. Anything, really.
I make a decision. I won’t contact my sister again.
Not yet anyway. Instead, I’m going to try to undermine her a little.
I won’t go too far, just little things to create cracks in her perfect existence, to tip things out of balance.
I don’t want to ruin Bella. I just want to level the playing field.
Then, maybe, once she’s not so high and mighty, once she’s toppled off that pedestal and is back at ground level, I might finally introduce myself, and we can start out on a more equal footing.
‘Hello, sister,’ I’ll say. ‘Sorry you’ve been having a rough time. I know just what that’s like.’ I’ll be her confidante, her lifeline. And she’ll owe me. She’ll be grateful to have me in her life. Excited to have such a caring sister.
Maybe a bad review. Maybe a rumour. Maybe just a phone call at the wrong moment.
Sabotage by increments. Like death by a thousand paper cuts, if you want to be dramatic.
Normal, pain-in-the-arse hassles, so she’ll know what it’s like to be me.
To be dealt all the shit cards in life. I need Bella to have a taste of that frustration. To have her confidence rattled.
Suddenly hungry, I reach for my half-eaten Snickers, every mouthful a little victory.
With renewed enthusiasm, I reopen Newbury’s website.
Looks like Bella’s running an ‘empowerment’ seminar next Thursday.
It’s booked out, but there’s a waiting list. I sign up three times under fake names: Tiffany Sharp, Mia Hutchens, Erin Palowski, all the girls who were bitches at school.
Next, I draft an email from a burner address.
‘Dear Ms Newbury. I am wondering if your “feminist” principles extend to your actual hiring and firing practices? Because some of the stories going around social media about your treatment of junior staff are shocking . . .’ I don’t hit send – yet.
But I let it sit in drafts, like a grenade with the pin pulled but not released.
For the first time in years, I feel powerful. I scrunch up my empty chocolate wrapper, pull my legs up on the sofa, phone in hand, and start planning what I’ll do next.