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 – notenough 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 ofWestquay 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.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bella
I push the door shut behind me and collapse on to the sofa, my shoulders still aching from the day’s tension. Yesterday’s calm at my parents’ feels like a cruel joke now that Newbury’s is already under the tax inspector’s microscope. They arrived right after my lunch with Reece, commandeering the back office and rifling through every spreadsheet and receipt. I’ve been sick with panic all afternoon, not helped by the fact that I thought I’d lost my keys. One of the auditors found them under my desk, which didn’t give a very good impression of my capability. I keep replaying the woman’s cold expression as she handed them to me. I need a distraction.
I call Reece to see if he wants to go out this evening. I could do with a few drinks to calm down. He picks up after two rings, and I’m greeted by the roar of beer-soaked laughter.
‘Which pub are you at?’ I ask. ‘I can be there in ten.’