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’tsomething 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 tohave 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.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bella
Reece and I step out of his BMW – a sporty, slate-grey M5 that still smells new even though it’s clocked enough motorway mileage to have acquired a few battle scars. It locks with a soft clunk. The engine ticks as it cools. The driveway undulates around us, the gravel glittering with frost.
My parents’ house looms at the top of the carriage drive, a white Georgian with three and a half storeys and a sprawl of outbuildings that have been stitched on to the sides over the past two centuries. It’s both beautiful and brooding, the way grand old houses often are – the kind that stir up nostalgia and awe in equal measure.
The house sits in grounds of almost two acres of lawns and ancient woodland, and has views over the Lymington River. I grew up here, built forts and played hide and seek in the woods, learned to drive on the rutted gravel, and hosted illicit sleepovers in the garden cottage. I see it all with the double vision of nostalgia and the nerves that have started to grip me. I take a deep, cold breath and try to remember that this is just my family’s home. Nothing to worry about.
Reece saunters up the wide, shallow steps as if leading a diplomatic mission, one hand buried in the pocket of his winter coat, the other holding a bouquet of pale pink roses. If this house is impressive, his parents’ main home is the full stately-home fantasy – helicopter pads and Jacuzzis, a billiard table in every wing.
Mum’s already standing in the doorway of the porticoed entrance that sits between the two bay windows. ‘Hello, darlings,’ she cries, her voice carrying across the frosty drive in a burst of warmth. She’s already in full-on Christmas hostess mode, festive scarf thrown over a chunky knit. Her hair is still a rich shade of chestnut, though the shine is more salon dye and conditioner than genetics these days. Her arms are open, ushering us forward as if we’re the prodigal children returning from some epic adventure, rather than a ten-minute drive along the B3054.