Chapter Twenty-Three Jade
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jade
Bella’s fresh-cut key copies are cold in my palm, gleaming with promise. The knowledge that I could let myself into Bella’s flat at any time is both intoxicating and terrifying. But I don’t go in. Not yet.
I stand beneath a bare-limbed tree outside Bella’s building, heart pinging off my ribcage, and weigh my options.
On the one hand, I’m itching to see the inside of her apartment, but on the other, I think about the credit card of hers I snagged, now tucked into my purse along with my own card, driving licence, and Tesco Clubcard.
A few hours and she’ll notice it’s missing, a couple more and it’ll be cancelled.
And it’s unlikely I’ll have any more chances.
Anyway, she could return home at any moment.
Decision made, I turn and head back to Mum’s Clio.
I’m at the wheel before I know it, skimming every yellow light, radio turned up to eleven.
The traffic is blissfully light for a Monday rush hour; maybe the universe has decided to give me a pass today.
The city blurs past – lights, concrete, billboards.
Westquay looms like a cruise ship – tiered parking, walkways, lights that never switch off. Thankfully, it’s open for late-night shopping. I park, and take a moment to breathe, the scent of diesel and petrol making me wrinkle my nose.
The lift is slow but gives me a moment to wipe my palms on my jeans, check my reflection, and reset my game face. Not even a hint of nerves – just the cool, ordinary mask of someone who spends every other week in John Lewis and Zara.
My last shopping trip was ages ago, with Zac, back in the summer, when I felt that familiar stab of guilt every time I bought something, even though I told myself it didn’t matter, that it would just get added to my credit card bill.
This time, I’ll have free rein to buy what I like, courtesy of Bella Newbury.
The doors open, and the mall’s noise engulfs me – music, chatter, the click-clack of heels, the drone of announcements.
I’m swept along in the crowd, letting their energy push me forward.
This close to Christmas, the whole place is a shrine to excess – Christmas trees on every level, animated snowflakes projected on to walls, sparkling decorations, and lights.
I buy one item at a time, taking turns in each store.
The salespeople don’t look twice at me, and the card works on every tap.
I’m careful not to overdo it, keeping every individual purchase under ￡100.
One chunky cardigan, a couple of pairs of Levi’s, a Superdry coat, and a stack of band tees that will start a feeding frenzy among the Depop set.
The thrill ratchets up with each beep of the card reader. No one questions it, no one stops me. In the beauty hall, the card goes through for a bottle of Chanel Gabrielle perfume and a skincare set I know retails for double online.
A beauty consultant with shell-pink nails offers to do my make-up, and for a moment I’m tempted, but the call of Bella’s credit card is too strong, so I regretfully decline.
I buy Charlotte Tilbury, La Mer, Yankee Candles.
All the stuff I know I can get great resale value for in the run-up to Christmas. The timing couldn’t be better.
At the Apple store, I select a screen protector, a charger, and Bluetooth headphones.
The sales assistant doesn’t even blink. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and for a second, I’m sure it’s Bella herself asking me what the hell I think I’m doing, but it’s just a spam email from a college that rejected me, reminding me that my future awaits.
I snort, nearly dropping my shopping bag.
Even with all this, I’m not careless. When I get to the till at John Lewis, I try to read the sales assistant’s face – will they notice the tense set of my jaw, or the sheen of sweat on my top lip as I start to worry that I might be pushing my luck?
But all she does is smile, hand me the paper bag, and ask if I want to sign up for a reward card.
I tell her I don’t have time today, thanks, and walk away.
The spree is like a fever. In Lush, the smells are deliciously sweet, like cake and sherbet, and the sales staff descend on me with buckets of glittery bath bombs.
I take six, because why not, and add a shower gel that’s dayglo purple.
At the till, the guy gives me a little speech about their recycling programme.
I smile and nod, thinking about how every drop of plastic in this city will outlive us all, piling up in landfill with our darkest secrets.
It’s here that the card finally gets declined.
I fake irritation, and mumble something about calling my bank and coming back once they’ve cancelled the block.
Security don’t even glance my way. I have seven bags swinging from my elbows, and a surge of power that makes me want to run back to the car and just drive until it runs out of petrol.
Instead, I pause at the food court. I skipped breakfast and lunch, and so my stomach is a pit of acid and adrenaline.
I treat myself to a bubble tea, using my own card to pay.
A reward, really, for a job well done. I sit at the table surrounded by my loot and watch the shoppers swirl by for a few moments.
Next, I go through the receipts, making a mental tally of the total haul.
If I can flip it all online quickly enough, I’ll have a decent chunk of money – not enough to see me through the next phase, but it’s a start.
I don’t even consider using any of it to pay off my debts. They’ll be behind me soon enough.
Keen to share my high with someone, but knowing I can’t, I text Zac a photo of the boba with an ‘x’ and nothing else, then I remember my lie to Mum and add a line: If Mum asks, I drove you to Southampton General this afternoon in her car because you dislocated your thumb ;)
Zac texts back straightaway: Are you high?
I laugh and slurp the last of the tea. No, but that sounds nice.
Haven’t seen you for ages. You free later?
I pause, feeling momentarily nostalgic for his kisses, but then I remember that my life has changed, and I don’t have time: Sorry, really tired.
The line of dots indicates that he’s typing, but then it disappears.
Shaking away a brief spark of remorse, I get to my feet and start walking back to the car.
The high is already wearing off, the weight of the bags leaving red crescents on my fingers.
As I cross the food court, I get the eerie feeling of being watched – a prickling at the base of my neck.
I scan the mezzanine but see nothing out of the ordinary.
Still, I keep my head down, beeline for the exits, and let the crowd carry me away.
There’s a moment, just as I’m unlocking the Clio, when I think I see someone across the car park watching me from the shadows.
I worry it might be a security guard that’s on to me, but it’s a man in a blue windbreaker, slouched against the rails.
Did he follow me? He flicks a cigarette over the edge, shoves his hands in his pockets, and walks away.
I exhale. Must be getting paranoid. I dump the bags in the boot, get in, lock the doors, and drive.
I exit the car park with the radio off, letting my thoughts knot and unknot in the dark.
It’s late, and I’m suddenly starving. I should have ordered some food along with the tea.
I head out of Westquay and make a pit stop nearby to satisfy my craving for a Burger King.
Then I get back in the car and head for home.
The city is a maze, but tonight it feels like I know every shortcut, every alley. As I barrel down the dual carriageway I’m riding the high of the day, the feeling that I’ve done something, made a dent in my world, however small, however crooked.
Mum should still be out at bingo with Pam tonight, so it’ll be safe to bring my haul into the flat. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass panel by the entrance door – flushed, triumphant, a little dangerous. I almost don’t recognise her.
I wonder, then, if Bella’s found out. If right now, in her sleek flat back in Lymington, she’s checking her bank balance, or getting a text from the fraud people.
Calling them to cancel her card. I drop the bags on the sofa, which gives a little sigh under their weight, and I stand back to admire the loot, and start planning my next step.
In the glow of the muted TV, I open my phone and create a fresh seller profile, username and all. I’m clever enough to use the free VPN that Zac installed for me, set up for this exact moment. There’s a weird satisfaction in knowing I can go from thief to entrepreneur in a single day.
I take pictures of every item against a white duvet cover.
Every click of the camera is its own little hit.
I arrange the clothes so they look expensive, like they belong to someone with a proper life.
I write captions with just the right ratio of exclamation marks, make the listings feel both urgent and effortless.
They virtually write themselves – ‘Rare!’ ‘Sold out everywhere!!’ ‘Get it in time for Christmas!’ In less than twenty minutes, the first bids start rolling in, and by eleven-thirty, I’ve answered four messages from buyers, all desperate to pay over the odds if I can ship tomorrow.
It’s almost disappointing how easy it is, how little anyone cares as long as you’ll post tracked and next-day.
Above the TV, Mum’s wall clock ticks, and for a split second, I do feel a twist of guilt.
Not for Bella, but for Mum. If she ever found out, it would break her in half.
Aside from that, I feel efficient, like I’ve unlocked a new level of myself.
Maybe this is what Bella feels all the time: hungry, invincible, always one step ahead.
I watch as the bids creep higher and the dopamine rushes in, electric and pure.
In the end, the only other thing I feel guilty about is how easy it is.
I hide all the bags behind the sofa, change into one of the stolen tees, spritz on some of the new perfume that I’ve decided to keep for myself, and crawl under the white duvet in a blanket of satisfaction, the telly still murmuring.
I prop my phone on my chest to keep refreshing the app.
The bids climb higher. I run the numbers in my head – a few hundred quid, easy.
Then I remember the keys in my coat pocket, and the reason I took them – access to Bella’s flat. That’s tomorrow’s plan sorted.
Eventually, I drift off, clutching my phone to my chest, and dream that I’m in a house made entirely of other people’s things.
Staircases of stacked jumpers, walls of perfume bottles, a garden of headphones, and glittery bath bombs.
In the dream, I can never find the front door; I just wander from room to room, pushing at the possessions as they pile up around me until there’s no air left to breathe.