Although Reece and I have been together for three and a half years, we still have our own places, and neither of us has brought up the subject of moving in together. I’m glad about it. I may be nearly thirty, but I have no desire to settle down, get married, and have kids. Not for a long time yet, if ever. Hopefully, Reece feels the same. Sometimes he comes here, sometimes I go to his – but I don’t love his cold, overly contemporary apartment – and sometimes we don’t see each other for days. It works.
Tonight he’s bought dinner – something expensive and difficult to pronounce, from the fancy deli by the quay – and he hands over the bag with a flourish. ‘Well? How was it?’
I nod slowly, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic in case I jinx it. ‘Yeah, it was fine. I think they might be interested.’
He whoops and spins me around, nearly sending the groceries flying.
‘It’s not definite!’ I cry, laughing at his over-the-top antics and setting down the takeaway on the coffee table.
We pour champagne (saved for just such occasions), and in the brightly lit room, we toast. Reece gets tipsy almost immediately, and his jokes become worse as the night draws on, but his enthusiasm is infectious. For a while, the tension that’s been wound around my shoulders for weeks, knotted up in between my ribs, loosens its grip, and I’m swept away in the relief of not having failed, in the giddy afterglow of not having been found out.
Still, underneath it all, there’s a pulse of fear that never quite quiets. I sit on the sofa next to him, feet tucked beneath my thighs, and think about how I’m going to break the news to Mum and Dad that a third party might be investing in the company. Someone else with skin in the game. Someone who will inevitably want a say in how things are run. It’s not that it’s bad news; it’s just not what they would expect. I worry about their reaction to me possibly giving away a part of the business that they built up from scratch.
Will Mum do her careful frown, the one she polishes for moments of disappointment? Will Dad pretend that he trusts my judgement, even as he interrogates every flaw in my plan? Maybe it’s paranoia, but I can already hear the critique in their voices. The urge to impress them is so strong it’s embarrassing; I’m nearly thirty and still desperate for approval. But, more than that, I’m worried about whether Dad will get stressed out by the news. And I can’t afford for that to happen.
The reason I took over the company in the first place was that, four years ago, he nearly died. It was a Thursday in September when Mum called to say the ambulance was on its way. He’d collapsed in the hallway on the way out to a meeting, clutching the doorframe. Triple bypass, months of rehab, the works. It shouldhave been a wake-up call for him, but in typical Dad fashion, he spent his first week home from the hospital fielding calls from clients, ignoring the literal ‘no stress’ mandate from his doctor. That was when Mum put her foot down and said they were retiring, no arguments.
I already knew the business inside out, and so it felt like a no-brainer for me to take over, with their guidance for the first year. I wanted to prove to them – and to myself – that I was savvy enough to keep the machine running.
But the truth is, I’m not. Or, if I am, I’m doing it by the skin of my teeth. I don’t want to give them a reason to worry – or worse, to step back in and try to fix it. The idea of Dad getting sucked back into the business – grey-faced and wired on adrenaline, winding himself up for a second heart attack – makes me feel physically ill.
Mum has purposely been keeping him distracted over the past few years, with relaxing holidays and other stress-free projects and hobbies such as fishing and cooking – anything to keep his blood pressure low. So if this news triggers his stress again, how will I ever forgive myself?
I remember a time – years ago, before the heart attack – when Dad took me to a client meeting in a hotel bar. I was supposed to just listen and learn, but halfway through, the client turned to me and asked what I thought. I froze. Dad jumped in and said, ‘Bells will give it to you straight. That’s why we keep her around.’ I remember the way he said it, half proud and half joking, but there was a glimmer in his eye like he actually meant it.
Maybe that’s what I’m banking on, now – that some version of that glimmer still exists, and that when I tell them the truth, they’ll at least respect me for giving it to them straight.
Reece doesn’t get my nervousness, not really. He thinks I’m overthinking everything, that I need to ‘lean in’ and be the confident powerhouse that social media keeps telling women to be. Iwant to tell him that his faith in me is a double-edged sword. That every time he says I’m killing it, I hear the echo of my own doubts. But instead, I just refill our glasses. Maybe he’s right, and maybe not. All I know is that I’m terrified of letting everyone down – my parents, my staff, even Ben, who would probably just high-five me if I crashed the company into a wall. I try to remember it’s my life, that I own the decisions and the mistakes, but it never quite sticks.
The rest of the night is a fast-forward of small joys and creeping dread – a thriller we’ve both seen, but enjoy again, the lazy sprawl of Reece’s legs across mine as he falls asleep on the sofa. I sit awake, scrolling mindlessly through news and memes, but underneath it all, I’m already replaying the presentation, cataloguing every error, every unguarded moment, every word I wish I’d said, and didn’t say. I wonder if anyone ever learns to stop doing this, or if it just becomes background noise, an endless audit of your own life.
Why do I always find it difficult to be happy? Maybe because I spend too much time second-guessing myself. Maybe because I let every sideways look or slightly delayed response get to me, cracking my resolve. Perhaps I’ll learn one day to brush it off, or maybe I’m just wired this way. I try to reassure myself that all that matters is I’m trying my best to make the right decisions for the company, for my parents’ legacy, and for myself. But I can’t calm my heartbeat or adopt the casual ease that Reece seems to ooze. Maybe one day soon, once this deal goes through, things will settle. I hope so.
Chapter Five
Jade
Zac loads the shopping bags into the boot of his silver Ford Focus, while I stand on the sun-warmed pavement, scrolling through my Instagram feed to distract me from the guilt of today’s spending spree. I’m in so much debt that it makes no difference at this point. That’s what I tell myself anyway. Perversely, because I owe so much, it feels like it doesn’t make a difference to add on a bit more. Whereas, beforehand, when I was in the black, I watched my pennies more carefully. There must be some psychology behind that.
‘I’m knackered,’ Zac grumbles. ‘Didn’t realise we’d be going round so many shops. Thought we were just supposed to be going out for lunch.’ He slams the boot shut and runs a hand through his short brown curls.
We’ve got a rare day off together, and I’d suggested grabbing a bite to eat in town, but somehow I got carried away by the summer sales. ‘You want me to look good, don’t you?’ I retort, thinking about how hot I looked in the summer dress and strappy sandals from H&M. I can’t wait to wear them somewhere nice. ‘Maybe we could go to the beach on our next day off together. Or you couldtake me to that new cocktail bar in town.’ I tilt my head and give him what I hope is a winning smile.
‘Yeah, I guess we could go to Bournemouth,’ he replies, sliding into the driver’s seat as I get into the passenger side. ‘Maybe SOBO Beach or over to Sandbanks,’ he adds. ‘Pricey though. You’ll have to chip in for petrol.’
I curl my lip, annoyed that he won’t be able to treat me. It won’t be any fun if we have to watch every penny. And he’ll only moan if I don’t offer to pay for a few rounds. Not like when we first met and he couldn’t do enough for me. Always treating me and buying me little presents – crap presents, but at least he made an effort. These days, he does nothing but moan. Brings me down, if I’m honest. I pull my seat belt across and click it into place.
Zac starts the engine, then leans forward and points. ‘Hey, over there. Isn’t that your mum? Thought you said she was working this afternoon.’
I glance up from my phone, squinting through the glare to see a familiar face on the opposite side of the road. A woman coming out of an accountant’s office, dressed in jeans, a navy striped top and an expensive-looking blazer. ItisMum, and she’s wearing the brunette wig again! This time she’s alone. No handsome man by her side.
I stare at her face. There’s absolutely no doubt about it. It’s her. Same features, same expression, same way of walking. This is ridiculous. I’m going to have to confront her.
‘Jade,’ Zac prompts, ‘I said, is that your mum? Did she dye her hair or something?’
I bite my lip. ‘What the hell?’ I mutter. ‘She’s supposed to be at work.’
‘Jade. . .’