Chapter Thirty Jade
Chapter Thirty
Jade
I wake up before it’s even light – before the traffic revs or the bins thunder or the tenants above start to move.
I don’t use my phone. I don’t even look at it.
I swing my suitcase out from beneath the sofa bed; it’s a battered thing belonging to my mother, with a half-torn sticker from Lanzarote and a broken zip tooth.
I’m taking it with me for authenticity’s sake.
I creep into the hallway with the same care with which I used to tiptoe past monsters in childhood nightmares, although now the monsters feel more real.
For a moment, my palm hovers on the handle to Mum’s bedroom. I want to see her face. No. Best not. I’m planning to be a ghost. Instead, I walk into the kitchen and rip out a page from a spiral notebook. My handwriting is too formal, an admission of guilt, but I keep it short:
Mum,
Speak soon. Don’t forget to take your blood pressure tablets. You always forget.
Love you x
I read it twice, then add another x at the last second, as if a single letter could fill the space I’m about to leave behind.
I set it on the countertop with my flat keys.
A part of me wants to take them for safety’s sake, but that would spoil the purity of the act.
The police, if they ever come, will see the keys, the note, and know I intended to stay in touch.
The outside world is a dark, frozen, sodden graveyard of streetlights and puddles.
I drag my suitcase across the paving slabs, which seem engineered to amplify every sound.
The walk to the station feels like a held breath.
The air has that grim, grey taste you only get in winter in England, like all the people and the pigeons are just waiting for sunlight to come back and make life bearable again.
At the station, I avoid the security cameras, though I know it’s pointless.
I buy my ticket to Lymington, pretending not to notice the stare of the man at the next self-service machine.
I fumble with the ticket, drop it, and pick it up.
I check the time and nip to the loo, where I remove the SIM card from my mobile, stomp on it with my heel, and then flush it away.
I have Bella’s phone now and, thanks to her notebook of passwords and Pin codes, along with facial recognition, I’m able to access most of her apps.
On the train, I rehearse my new name under my breath, over and over.
Bella Eve Newbury. Bella Eve Newbury. The longer I say it, the more I grow into the shape of her.
I picture the way she carried herself, the careful shoulder set, the smile that looked so self-assured.
The rhythm of her voice, the way she enunciated certain words in her property videos – ‘exquisite’, ‘delightful’, ‘triple aspect’.
I try each one out, like a piece of exotic fruit, rolling it between my teeth.
By the time the train spits me out at Lymington station, I look at my reflection in the window and see someone who will never answer to Jade Morgan again.
I walk to Bella’s flat with my set of copied keys, trying to ignore my trembling fingers and too-fast heartbeat.
Outside her building, I pause for a moment to breathe.
To steady myself and take it all in – the white facade, the sash windows, the peaceful, tree-lined road.
This street is so well-mannered, so painfully middle-class, it feels like a film set.
I walk up the path, past the clipped box hedges and the little brass plaque that says ‘Seafoam Court’.
For a second, I think about how the people here probably complain about the recycling bins being too ugly, or their neighbours playing Radio 4 above a polite decibel level.
I imagine them watching me through the slats of their expensive wooden shutters, and for half a second, I stare back, daring them to question me.
Inside, I let the lift take me up in silence.
The key slides into the lock and turns with a satisfying, expensive click.
The flat is pristine, so scrubbed it smells like money.
There’s a rubber plant in the hallway that I hadn’t noticed before, and a painting of abstract blue blobs, and when I set my suitcase just inside the door, I have this mad compulsion to kneel and kiss the pale wood floors.
Instead, I take off my boots and slip into the apartment. My apartment.
There’s a bottle of prosecco in the fridge, and when I open it, the pop echoes down the corridor like a starter pistol.
I drink straight from the neck. I don’t bother with a glass, nobody’s watching, and that’s the best bit.
The prosecco is cold and bites the back of my throat in a way that tells me it’s the first of many acts of ownership.
I take it with me into the living room, where everything is warm and welcoming and decorated to look effortless.
The kind of luxury that comes from money, but more from knowing you belong.
I flop on to the huge cream sofa, making a mental note to never eat curry on it, and let the cushions embrace me. For a moment, the anxiety drains out. All I feel is the springy give of the seat, the gentle hum of the fridge, the faint thud of my own pulse in my ears.
I do a tour of the flat, drink in hand. Through the restful bedroom and into the huge dressing room, I run my fingers across the bottles and potions on the dressing table.
I unscrew the lid of a ￡200 face cream, scoop a little out, and rub it into my hands.
For the first time I can remember, my skin doesn’t feel like sandpaper.
I gaze at the shoes, bags, and racks of clothes.
I’ve seen it all before, but now I’m staring at it with the pride of ownership rather than the fear of trespassing.
I try on a pale pink, cashmere lounge set. It’s cosy and comfy, the fabric so soft it’s almost erotic. I spin in front of the mirror, then collapse on to the plush carpet, laughing at the absurdity of it all. I am a queen. I am a goddess. I am Bella Newbury.
As the day wears on, I nest. I remake Bella’s bed with fresh sheets.
Visit the deli on the corner and stock the fridge with salads, Greek yoghurt, blueberries, and smoked salmon.
I use her credit card to order a scented candle online for delivery under the name Bella Eve Newbury.
I’m living in her skin, and it fits. By mid-afternoon, I’m delirious with prosecco, caffeine, and euphoria.
I decide to test-drive her Fiat, the keys glinting on a gold hook by the door.
No more sneaking around borrowing Mum’s car whenever I want to go somewhere. I’ve got my own set of wheels now.
The drive along the country roads is everything I imagined – hedgerows, wild wind, the winter sky egging me on to go faster.
I roll the windows down and blast some bass-heavy tunes, the kind of music Bella would probably have hated, just because I can.
I imagine how it would feel to get pulled over in this car, in these clothes, and to present her licence with a dazzling smile.
No one would ever suspect. Although, with a sudden chill, I remember the half a bottle of prosecco I’ve drunk and I realise that I could be in serious trouble if I were to be breathalysed.
I’d better get home – home! An image of my new apartment flies satisfyingly into my brain – and this time I’ll stay under the speed limit.
It’s already dark when I return to the flat.
I eat a goat’s cheese salad and watch some early evening cookery show where they’re making canapés.
Their chatter is so inane it’s almost hypnotic.
I’m chewing, halfway to a second mouthful, when the entry buzzer screeches through the flat.
It’s not just a sound – it’s a fork jabbed straight into my nervous system.
I freeze, my brain flying into a panic. I can’t move. I can’t even swallow. My stomach flips in a slow, sickening arc. Who could it be? I’m not ready. I don’t want to see anyone, not yet. I need to get more comfortable in Bella’s skin first.
I tell myself I’ll ignore it. Just wait it out. If it’s important, they’ll call back. But the buzzer doesn’t stop. It sounds again, and again, and again.
I set my plate down, the clink of it against the glass coffee table absurdly loud, and pad barefoot to the window.
From this angle, all I can see is the dark, quiet street.
I squint, and my ghostly reflection gapes back at me, eyes wide and panicked.
My heartbeat grows loud and twangy. I need whoever it is to go away.
What if it’s Bella’s boyfriend? At least I know it’s not her parents – Bella’s diary has them on holiday in the Caribbean for four weeks.
So that gives me a nice long time to get comfortable before I try to pass the ultimate test of fooling them.
I take a deep, steadying breath as the buzzer takes on a rhythmic sound.
There’s a pattern to it – two blasts, a pause, then three more in rapid succession, as though whoever’s down there is playing a tune.
It almost makes me smile, as it’s the kind of thing I would do if I were annoyed that someone was ignoring me.
Why am I so anxious? This is what I wanted – to take over my twin’s life. And I can’t do it by hiding away in her flat. I need to start the process of becoming her. And I can only do that by integrating into her life properly. And that means interacting with her friends and family.
Before I can change my mind, I head into the hall and press the intercom button, remembering to modulate my voice into Bella’s posh drawl. ‘Hello?’
‘Finally!’ It’s a woman’s voice. Posh, around my age. ‘Are you going to buzz me in? Or do you want me to freeze to death out here?’
I hesitate. Is this someone I’m meant to recognise by voice alone? You’d think in a block this posh, there’d be a videophone. I flip through my mental list of possible suspects, but nothing fits. ‘Who is this?’ I ask, risking it.