‘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 othercards, 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.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jade
After work, I slip out the back door of The Oak, avoiding the kitchen crew’s litany of shared complaints, and duck into the alley behind the pub. It’s freezing – my breath comes out in dragon puffs, wreathed in the sickly glow of the security lamp – and my backpack is so overstuffed it’s threatening to split at the seams. The adrenaline buzz that powered me through my shift is ebbing, replaced by the prickling tingle of nerves, like static running up my arms.
I pace in tight circles, boot soles crunching on frost, and try to keep my hands busy. Every few seconds I check my phone, skipping from eBay and Marketplace to Gumtree, Depop, and Vinted, checking my listings and balances. It’s all mounting up nicely. After my initial credit-card spree at Westquay last week, I managed to sell almost nine hundred quid’s worth of stuff. It was such a buzz. But I’m going to need a hell of a lot more than that. Maybe even ten times that amount. I still have Bella’s taupe Mulberry bag that retails for just under a grand, but every time I went to photograph it, I got the creeping fear that she’d reported it stolen and that some hidden algorithm would trace it back to me. Luckily, I came up with another idea for how to get rid of it.
I also decided my only option to get the money I need quickly was to return to Bella’s flat, while she was at work, for one last rummage. So that’s what I did, fully prepared with a backpack this time.
Instead of hitting the obvious stuff – the showpiece heels and the brand-name items I know she’s worn on Insta – I went straight for the back of the closet, the dead zone where even Bella’s compulsive tidiness couldn’t quite reach.
There, bunched between garment bags and vacuum-sealed puffer coats, I found a treasure trove – half a dozen silk tops with the tags still attached, a couple of boxed purses, even a pair of sunglasses so expensive they came with their own authenticity certificate. I got that shivery, over-caffeinated feeling as I unzipped a battered overnight bag and found it stuffed with old receipts, spiral-bound planners, and more than a few loose tenners and twenties. I took those, too. My guess was that Bella didn’t even know they were there.
On my way out, I paused at her dressing table, which looked like it belonged in a movie star’s dressing room – glass perfume bottles, facial rollers, a lipstick in every possible shade. I’d ignored it on my first visit, but this time I paid more attention. Nestled in the middle was a large, pink, velvet jewellery box.
I opened it, half expecting a tinkly ballerina. Instead, there were layers of chains, bracelets, rings, and earrings that I’m fairly certain cost more than Mum’s flat. I picked out a few of the shinier bits and dropped them into my pocket. I also got lucky when I pulled open a couple of drawers and found gift bags of unopened make-up. I stuffed a few in my rucksack, then carefully shuffled the remaining contents so it wouldn’t look like anything had been disturbed.