Chapter Twenty-Six Bella
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bella
There’s a knock at the door just as I’m wringing my hair, still dripping from the world’s fastest shower.
I’m expecting to see Reece, but it’s my neighbour, Marisol.
‘Hello, Bella. I know it’s a bit early, but I brought over a bottle of Rioja. Thought you might like a glass while we chat about the roof repairs.’
My stomach turns at the thought of drinking wine after last night’s binge-drinking session. ‘Hi, Marisol. Um, roof repairs?’
‘Yes, remember? We arranged to meet at six today to chat about it.’
I scramble for the memory, but my head’s still not right. It’s as if everything from the last twenty-four hours has been overwritten by a single, throbbing hangover. ‘I’m so sorry. I completely forgot. I have to be out this evening . . . a dinner thing.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Marisol’s smile flickers, then frays at the edges.
For a moment, she just stands there, staring at the top of her wine bottle.
I feel a stab of guilt deep in my chest. She only moved here a few months ago, and this block is full of card-carrying introverts who never say more than ‘morning’ and ‘bin day’s Thursday’ in the communal hallway.
I don’t think she knows many people. I get the sense she’s not good at the making-friends bit.
‘Can we make it tomorrow instead?’ I ask. ‘I promise I won’t forget this time.’
‘Sure.’ Her face recalibrates, the smile reboots. ‘Tomorrow. Same time?’
‘A bit later, say, six-thirty? I’ll get some nibbles in.’
‘Perfect!’ She waves and disappears back into her flat.
I close the door and exhale with such force that my vision whites out for a second.
I feel rough, and I really do not want to spend tomorrow evening talking about roof-repair quotes.
I can already feel the awkwardness of forced small talk lubricated by cheap Rioja and supermarket hummus.
I know I should do more to make my neighbour feel welcome, but everything feels so hard lately, like I’m watching my life from behind a thick screen.
I’m halfway through towel-drying my hair again when there’s another knock at the door.
I open the door, and this time it is Reece, out of breath but grinning, wearing the dark suit I once told him made him look like a hitman.
And the shirt I gave him last Christmas, the one with the subtle navy polka dots that he claimed was ‘too playful’ for work.
He’s obviously worn it this evening to try and butter me up, to get me to forgive him.
‘Hey. Sorry about last night, Bells.’ He’s holding a small bouquet of supermarket tulips, wilting at the tips. ‘Really. It was a dick move. Should’ve been there for you. Promise I’ll make it up to you tonight.’
‘Come in.’ I don’t respond to his apology because I’m still pissed off about his lack of support. Instead, I point at my hair and say, ‘Need to finish getting ready.’
He sprawls on my king-size bed, watching me.
I hold up two tops for him to inspect: ‘Black or green?’ I stare at the mirror to avoid looking at him directly.
‘Black,’ he replies immediately. ‘Sexier.’
Sexy is the last thing I feel. As well as hungover from last night’s solo drinking session in Southampton, I’ve had another anxiety-ridden day at work.
He’s booked a table tonight, so I know he’s really trying to make things up to me, but the truth is I would have much preferred a pyjama night on my own, maybe an Uber Eats and some Netflix – anything but an elaborate dinner that will require three layers of make-up, uncomfortable underwear, and pretending not to be exhausted.
I’m not in the mood for performative coupledom tonight.
But if I bail, Reece will only think I’m sulking.
I slide the black silk top over my head and wriggle into my favourite jeans.
‘Jeans?’ He doesn’t even try to hide the judgement. ‘I booked The Carousel. You know, that new swanky place down by the Quay.’
‘You didn’t say there was a dress code,’ I reply.
‘Well, no, but . . . it’s kind of . . . formal?’
I sigh, and go back into the walk-in.
‘I mean, you look good in the jeans, but—’
‘It’s fine,’ I call back grumpily.
I pick out a cream silk pleated skirt and my tan boots.
But now the top’s all wrong. Where’s my Mulberry handbag?
I’m sure it was on this shelf. Goosebumps prickle the back of my neck.
There’s a strange smell in here, like a fruity body spray – something that definitely doesn’t belong in my flat. Has someone been in here? Surely not.
‘Reece, can you come here a sec?’
He does as I ask, a quizzical expression on his face.
‘Does it smell weird to you in here?’ I ask, and immediately feel ridiculous.
Reece takes a deep, theatrical sniff. ‘Weird how?’
‘Like, chemical? Sweet?’
He shrugs, unbothered. ‘Maybe the cleaner used a different polish?’
‘No. Kayleigh only comes on Thursdays, and it always smells like those eco-friendly wipes. This is more . . . synthetic. Like cheap perfume.’
‘I can’t smell anything.’ Reece takes a step towards me. ‘Except you.’ He nuzzles my neck, but I step away.
‘I need to dry my hair.’
‘You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?’ Reece folds his arms.
‘No. I’m just tired. Work sucks at the moment and my brain is scrambled.’
‘Well, let’s go out and forget our worries for a night.’
I hate the way he says ‘our worries’, like he’s dismissing mine.
He doesn’t get it, and somehow that makes me want to cry and throat-punch him simultaneously.
I think, maybe for the first time, about what it would be like to be alone every night – no negotiations, no explaining myself, no going out when I want to stay in.
I realise that this is why our relationship hasn’t progressed in years.
He never wants to talk about the serious stuff.
Never wants to hear anything negative. It always has to be sunlight and laughter.
Which, on the one hand, is also what I love about him, but it can be frustrating when there are real issues going on in my life.
‘Can you see my Mulberry bag anywhere? The small one, crossbody?’ I try to sound casual. ‘I was sure I left it here, but it’s gone.’
Reece scans the room in a slow, distracted way. ‘You probably left it at work.’
‘I never take it to work. Too nice for the office. I usually keep it here so I don’t forget it on the way out. I think I must be losing my marbles.’
There’s a silence, and I feel for a moment like I’ve opened a door to a possible future, a version of myself who loses things, who forgets appointments and cries in changing rooms and quietly becomes someone nobody can quite rely on. The thought makes my chest throb.
‘I think you’re just tired,’ Reece says.
‘Maybe. I just . . . I have this feeling in here tonight like someone’s been around my stuff.’
He laughs, which I find infuriating. ‘Maybe it’s the ghosts of your old school friends, come to haunt your fashion choices.’
‘Ha, ha.’ I roll my eyes. But I do remember locking the door, checking twice before I left this morning.
There’s no way anyone could have got in.
It must be Kayleigh. Has to be. Maybe she arranged to come today instead, and I forgot.
Same as I forgot I was supposed to be meeting Marisol this evening.
I’m going to have to ensure I put everything in my online diary instead of thinking I’ll remember.
I try to put it out of my mind and return to the perma-crisis of getting dressed. I pull out another top, a forest-green one with a low scoop, and try it with the skirt. Better.
‘Do you think I should get an alarm system?’ I ask, half joking. Although I don’t know why I’m asking, because I can’t afford anything like that at the moment.
Reece’s eyebrows go up. ‘If it makes you feel safer, sure, why not?’ He’s reading something on his phone, not even looking at me.
‘Or what about a doorbell camera?’ I muse, sure I could pick one up cheaply. Something suddenly occurs to me. ‘Hey, can you grab my wallet from the dresser?’
He tosses it to me, almost knocking over my bottle of La Mer Revitalizing Hydrating Serum. I repress a grunt of annoyance, flip the wallet open, and my blood goes cold. My credit card isn’t there.
‘Fuck.’
‘What now?’ He sounds more tired than curious.
‘My credit card!’
‘What about it?’ Reece frowns.
‘I just remembered, I went to pay for . . . something yesterday and it wasn’t in my purse.’ I’m not telling Reece that I went out drinking alone last night. I was hoping I was wrong, but it’s not here.
‘When did you last have it?’
‘You sound like my mum,’ I say, but I try to think. ‘Not yesterday. I think it was at the weekend? I picked up a coffee from Beanz on Sunday morning, before we went to my parents’ place.’
‘Maybe you left it in the café.’
‘Good point. They’ll be closed now. I’ll pop in tomorrow.’
‘You should probably check your bank statement, just in case.’
That’s actually a good idea, but I resent him for having it. I snatch up my phone, open up the app, and take a look at my credit card statement. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’
‘What?’ Reece comes and looks over my shoulder.
‘Superdry, John Lewis, Zara, the Apple Store . . .’ I murmur in disbelief, noting that each transaction is time-stamped within minutes of the last. In total, over a thousand quid gone in one evening.
‘Had a bit of a spree, did you?’ Reece asks before the penny drops. ‘Oh, that wasn’t you?’
‘No, it bloody wasn’t!’ I sit heavily at my dressing table.
My mind spins. Someone must have swiped my card while I was in the bar last night.
Could it have been that Irish barman? Or maybe it was that young girl who knocked into me.
Maybe they were in on it together. Maybe he was flirting with me to distract me, while she went through my bag.
I feel like such a gullible idiot. Should I call the police?
‘Shit,’ Reece says, with appropriate alarm. ‘You need to call the bank. Right now.’
I notice a red alert at the top of the app asking me to verify that a purchase from Lush is being made by me.
I type back ‘NO’ in capital letters and scroll down to the bottom of the screen to find the number for the fraud department. ‘Sorry, Reece, I’m not going to be able to come out tonight. I have to sort this out.’
‘The reservation isn’t for another half hour.’ Reece reminds me that this crisis is merely a detour from dinner.
I shake my head. ‘I know. But I’ll probably be on hold that long. Raincheck?’
I hear him sigh, the sound of disappointment and relief intermingled. ‘I’ll just . . . go, then. I’ll rebook dinner for another night.’
‘You’re not staying?’ I ask.
‘While you’re on hold to the bank?’ He smiles. ‘I’ll pass. Text me when you get it sorted, yeah?’
I nod, only partly listening, already punching in the numbers.
He leaves the room, his coat swishing, a soft click as the bedroom door closes behind him.
I barely notice. I sit, half dressed, knee bouncing up and down like a nervous metronome, waiting for the call to connect.
I can hear the thump of my heart in my ears.
A robotic voice answers, giving me a list of options.
I press four for stolen cards, and hear the front door slam, relief and disappointment tugging at my chest.
Minutes crawl. My thoughts spiral in reverse: Where’s my Mulberry bag? Did Kayleigh come today? How sure am I of anything at this point?
I wander back to the bedroom, phone still pressed to my cheek.
The fraud operator finally answers, a middle-aged Scottish woman who calls me ‘Mrs Newbury’ in a fatigued voice.
I try to explain I’m ‘Ms’, but she’s already reading out the flagged transactions in a bored, methodical way.
I reply to her questions. Yes, the Superdry purchase.
Yes, the John Lewis purchase. Yes, I have my other cards, just not the platinum credit card.
Yes, I will cut it up if I find it. My responses sound brittle, like I’m reading from a bad script.
She puts me on hold and then comes back, her tone slightly warmer. ‘All right, Mrs Newbury, we’ve blocked your card permanently. The new one will arrive by Monday. You should call the police to report the theft, just so it’s on file.’ She’s probably said this a thousand times.
My phone pings with a message. It’s Reece. Sorry for bailing. Hope you get it sorted xx. No offer to come back. No inquiry about how I’m feeling, whether I want company or support, or even just to vent my stress into his shoulder.
I grit my teeth, disappointed in him all over again. His detachedness never used to bother me. When did that change?
I sit on the bed and let my phone fall from my hand.
Is this what relationships are supposed to be like?
I’m starting to realise that Reece and I have been quite surface-level.
I guess that’s because we’ve never really had any major obstacles to overcome.
No bad times. Ever since we met, our lives have been plain sailing, relaxed, fun.
Now that my life is hitting a rough patch, he’s backing off.
It’s depressing and scary to think that I can’t rely on him to be there for me when things get serious.
Does this mean the end for us? Or am I overreacting?
I don’t think I am. He knows I’m having a shit time at work.
That I’m having an audit. That my credit card was stolen, and I’m worried someone has broken into my home.
And what’s his reaction? To leave. I sink back against the pillows with a sigh.
If I’m not going to have my boyfriend to lean on, I guess I’ll have to sort out my problems on my own.