Chapter Twenty Jade
Chapter Twenty
Jade
I’m at work, behind the bar at The Oak, doing my usual routine – pouring pints, collecting glasses, stacking the dishwasher.
The entire room is humid with the smell of lager and aftershave.
I blend in perfectly. I’m part of the furniture here.
There’s a kind of energy in the place on Saturdays – nervous and a bit desperate, like the punters are all trying to drink away the memory of their week.
Mags already put up the tired Christmas decorations at the start of the month, like she does every November.
She says it puts people in a more festive, spendy mood, and she’s right – the decades-old tinsel and a few gold-sprayed pine cones definitely increase the bar takings.
There’s a group of three lads at the bar, wearing footie tops and Lynx.
They’re showing off for the benefit of some girls over by the fruit machines, trying to outdo each other with stories about who can drink the most and who once nearly got scouted by Southampton FC.
One of them leans over the bar so far that I can see the blackheads in his pores.
‘You’ll go out with Tommo, won’t you?’ he says to me, nudging the supposed Tommo – a lanky bloke with a gormless expression whose only reaction is to try to grow taller still, as if he can impress me with his height.
I hold out the card machine. ‘I’d love to, but I’m married.’ I give them a regretful smile while flashing my left hand, where a cheap gold band shines dull under the bar lights.
The ring is fake, obviously. I bought it from Claire’s Accessories in a two-for-one set with a cubic zirconia engagement ring.
I started wearing it after I realised it cut down on chat-up attempts by about 80 per cent.
The other 20 per cent persist, but the story of my MMA-fighting husband is handy for those triers.
The lads groan, all faux heartbreak, but at least they pay and move away, back to hassle the fruit-machine girls, jostling and snorting as they go.
I used to get angry, or at least stung, by the way the customers treated me – a weird mix of invisible and hyper-visible, like a prop with boobs. Now it just slides off, most of the time. I have bigger things on my mind.
My next customer is Dodgy Steve, the local supplier of bootleg perfume and ‘designer’ handbags.
‘All right, Jade?’ he says, sidling up with his usual air of conspiracy. ‘Got a new shipment in, if you fancy summat. Gucci. Real snakeskin.’
‘Sorry, Steve, I’m skint at the moment.’ But he already knows I’ll have a look at his wares in the beer garden after clocking off. It’s a ritual.
If you’d asked me a few months ago whether I enjoy my job, I’d have laughed in your face.
Back then, work was something to endure, an endless carousel of sticky floors, pretending to be nice, and night buses that never arrive.
Now, though, everything’s changed. Not because the work is any better – God, no – but because there’s something on the side.
My secret project. Having a mission, even a petty one, takes the edge off a lot of life’s daily shit.
It gives me something to look forward to.
A reason to think, and plot, and scheme in the quiet moments between orders.
For example, last week, before my shift, I went to watch the house on Greenway that Bella’s agency is showing. I parked two streets over and observed her from my car, clocking her Fiat 500 as she swept up the drive to show me – a no-show – the property.
That’s not the real story, though. The real story is the builder’s rubble I arranged to have delivered a few days later.
I’d seen the ad on Freecycle: ‘Rubble hardcore for collection or delivery – Free.’ All I had to do was ring the number and supply contact details.
I gave them the address of Bella’s listing, so it would make a lovely surprise for her next round of viewings. It’s the little things.
I didn’t get to see her reaction, which was a shame, but I picture it anyway – Bella’s perfect face twisting with confusion, then smoothing over as she tries to explain the problem to her clients.
It’s not just no-shows, annoying deliveries and effed-up empowerment seminars.
I’ve also rung the Revenue anonymously to grass her up for tax dodging.
I’ve signed her up to weird mailing lists that fill her inbox with spam.
I even sent her a fake parking fine. I soothe my conscience with the thought that none of this will actually hurt her.
I tell myself these are mosquito bites, nothing more.
She’ll brush them off, tell a funny story to her fancy friends, and move on with her pristine day.
But my pricking conscience is warring with my desire to really impact her life. To do something far more serious . . .
The sound of a glass smashing brings me out of my reverie. At the other end of the bar, Mags is staring at me like she’s been calling my name for hours.
‘Jade!’ she shouts over the din. ‘Customers are waiting to be served.’
I blink and look over. ‘What? Oh, sorry, Mags.’
Mags is a local legend, sixty if she’s a day, and knows more about The Oak’s regulars than their own spouses do. She gives me a look that would turn water to ice. ‘What’s wrong with you at the moment?’
‘Uh, nothing.’ I force a smile.
She arches a brow, not buying it for a second. ‘You’ve been away with the fairies for weeks.’
‘I’m fine,’ I insist, but the lie sits weirdly in my mouth.
‘Well, then act like it,’ Mags retorts, and gestures with her chin towards the loved-up couple at the end of the bar.
The guy is making a show of putting his arm around the girl’s waist, and she’s giggling so hard her nose wrinkles up.
I almost feel jealous, until I realise he’s already looking interestedly past her at some other girl.
I sigh, head down the bar, and take their order.
All I can think is, I bet Bella doesn’t have to deal with people questioning her every move.
I bet she gets to do and say what she wants, and everyone just worships her, like it’s the word of God.
Even when she acts like an absolute bitch, no one would call her on it because Bella’s the boss.
Another replay of last month’s phone conversation slips into my mind, and my face grows hot at the memory of her casual rejection.
I bet she never even gave me a second thought after ending the call.
I was just a momentary nuisance to her. Imagine if I had her life.
That kind of confidence, that arrogance.
Like a jacket you can just throw on and zip up, instead of something stitched together from scraps, hoping it holds.
There’s this voice in my head more and more, lately, that tells me it’s time to stop playing small.
That if I don’t do something real, something proper, I’ll end up exactly like all the other staff who work here – worn down, hunched over, dreaming about how things could have been different.
I’m starting to believe the voice. That’s the scariest part.
And I don’t like to dwell on it, but my debt isn’t something that’s going away.
I need to find a solution to it before those bailiffs show up again.
On my break, I slip my phone from my pocket and scroll through Bella’s socials for the tenth time today. New photo: her in a set of gym leggings, smiling with her hair up and a bottle of green juice in hand. The caption is some bollocks about ‘self-care Saturdays’ and #bossbabe.
I stare at the picture until it blurs, and then my fingers slowly slide across to open a new Google tab and I start typing ‘how to change identity’ into the search bar.
The results fill the screen – some are motivational speakers or psychology blogs, but others are geared towards people escaping their lives or the criminally minded.
I skim a few, my heart pounding even though I don’t know why.
It’s not like the cops are watching me, is it?
I bookmark a couple of links, then close the browser and shove the phone deep into my apron.
For the rest of my shift, I’m on autopilot. Wipe, pour, smile, repeat. But the plan won’t leave me alone. I probably wouldn’t have the nerve to do it – but just say I did. How would it look?
By the time we’re locking up, I’m already hypothetically figuring out phase one.
Next payday, I’ll buy the dye and book a cut at the salon by the bus station.
No. That won’t work. I’ll have to do this properly and splash out on the hair – spend money I haven’t got to make it convincing.
The hairstyle is everything. Get that wrong and I may as well forget the whole thing.
Maybe I can save money on the clothes. I could try the charity shops in a posher area of town.
I’ll have to get my teeth whitened, or at least clean the coffee stains off with bicarbonate of soda.
I’ll also need to lose a stone or two and tone up a bit.
If anyone were to notice my new look, they’d just think I was trying to better myself.
Focusing on the steps calms me, gives my brain something to chew on that isn’t just envy or bitterness.
It’s almost comforting to have a plan. I picture myself living Bella’s life – waking up in clean sheets, reading the paper over Waitrose granola, driving to work with a latte that costs more than my hourly wage.
I picture the way it would feel to walk into a room and have people’s faces light up at the sight of me.
There are obstacles, obviously. The biggest one being Bella herself. She’s not just going to roll over and let me step into her shoes. I’ll need to think things through a bit more.
Dodgy Steve is waiting for me outside, like I knew he would be, with a battered duffel bag of handbags, sunglasses, and purses, and a couple of pre-made roll-ups. He hands one over, and we light up together, standing in the yellow spill of the streetlamp.
‘You look like you’re up to something,’ he says, squinting at me. ‘I can always tell.’
‘Maybe I am,’ I reply, and for the first time all day, it feels natural to smile.