Chapter Twenty-Two
Jade
Lurking in a busy Lymington gift shop, I pretend to be captivated by a display of overpriced candles, as a playlist of instrumental Christmas carols bleeds tinsel-bright into the air. The windows are fogged with the breath of shoppers and the bite of winter rain.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ the manager asks, sidling up, with the tone of someone who’s come across enough shoplifters to be wary.
‘Just browsing, thanks.’ I’m turned away, and wearing my usual disguise of parka, hat, and monstrous scarf wound loosely over the lower portion of my face. I keep my hands neatly behind my back, the model of an innocent browser.
She’s not deterred. ‘Those candles are made locally,’ she says, moving closer. ‘Gorgeous, aren’t they? Feel free to take off the lids and have a sniff.’
‘I will, thanks,’ I reply, telling her topiss offin my head.
My prayers are answered when a real customer, a mum with a toddler clutching a bedraggled-looking cloth duck, pipes up at the counter about gift-wrapping a mirror. The shopkeeper’s attention pivots, and I can breathe again.
For the past few weeks – whenever I’ve been able to use Mum’s car without her noticing – I’ve been embarking on these little field trips through Lymington, spending time in cafés, newsagents, salons, anywhere a local would go. Visiting all the likely Bella haunts, trying to get to know the place, just so I don’t feel like a stranger. Of course, I’ve had to wear my usual disguise and keep my head down, but that’s easier in winter when I can stay bundled up.
Working at the pub, Mum, Zac – they all feel like irrelevancies now, taking me away from my new purpose. I can already feel myself leaving them behind, preparing for my ritzy new life.
When I’m not in Lymington or at work, I’ve spent every other moment watching YouTube videos on how to become an estate agent. There are hundreds – tips on sales patter, scripts for cold calls, how to plant self-doubt in buyers while oozing charm. It’s all about confidence and micro-expressions. I watch with headphones in, a notebook open, scribbling down phrases and mannerisms like I’m revising for exams. I’m not letting the practicalities faze me – by the time I’m Bella, I’ll be able to charm an OAP into a shoddy retirement flat before she’s put the kettle on.
Obviously, I won’t need to take an actual course because, once I’m Bella, I’ll be magically qualified. This research is just for my own peace of mind. So that once I step into her shoes, I’ll be convincing.
I’ve already dyed my hair back to its natural brunette shade – Bella’s shade. It’s a bit flat, and the cut isn’t quite right, but I’ve got time. With a little more effort and maybe some hair products and vitamin supplements, I can bring it up to glossy, shoulder-grazing health. I now can’t believe I ever wanted to go blonde. This shade suits me so much better. For now, I keep it tied back in a low ponytail like she sometimes does when she’s on the job. Occasionally, I catch my reflection in car windows and have to do a double take because I don’t look like me anymore.
Of course, Mum’s had plenty to say about my new look and, for once, she’s been quite complimentary. Although I’ve noticed her giving me a few funny glances when she thinks I’m not looking. But if she has any suspicions, she hasn’t said anything. Hopefully, she simply assumes I’ve been inspired by Bella’s style since finding out about her. Ever since coming clean about her past and my sister, Mum has avoided all conversation about it. At first this annoyed me, but now it suits my purposes for her not to be asking any questions.
As well as Bella’s look, I’m also trying to learn everything I can about her mannerisms, in case they’re different from my own. Luckily for me, Newbury’s has created a few videos, and she’s in most of them doing walk-throughs of the properties. I’m going to have to polish my accent. Bella sounds like she went to private school, so I’d better get practising. It’s actually quite fun. I feel like an actress. It would be easier if I could really get into character and carry it on at home and work. But everyone would take the piss, accuse me of trying to be posh.
So I have to be content with recording myself on my phone and playing it back. Sometimes I overshoot and sound like a BBC weather presenter, which would make Mum die laughing if she caught me. I only let myself practise when she’s out.
A few times, I work up the nerve to do a dry run in public. I’ll order a coffee or ask for directions to the city centre with Bella’s accent, and watch the baristas and dog walkers for funny looks. Nobody’s commented. I think I’m getting good. And the more I do it, the more I enjoy it. I think people seem to respect me more when I’m her.
My favourite training ground is the estate agency itself. Over several days, I’ve watched from across the street as Bella comes and goes in her parade of smart coats and expensive boots.
This afternoon, from my vantage point in the gift shop, I see Bella popping into the café next door with her boyfriend – I’ve seen him a couple of times before – a posh twat. He could be a fly in the ointment, but I’m not worrying about him for the moment. The two of them sit in the window of the café. He leans in intensely as if they’re having a serious conversation, but she looks distracted, scrolling through her phone. And then I realise she’s not carrying her handbag. I guess the boyfriend is paying.
This could be my in.
There’s only one other staff member in the agency today, an older guy sitting at a desk near the back – possibly the manager, possibly not. He’s busy talking to a couple. They’re hunched over, engrossed in what he’s saying.
Ten seconds, maybe less. I leave the gift shop, cross the road – pocketing my beanie and fluffing my hair – and slip through the agency door. My heart is drumming so loudly I worry the guy at the back might hear it, but he’s wrapped up in his spiel about ‘fixed interest rates’ and ‘life insurance’. I pray he doesn’t look up and notice I’m wearing a completely different outfit.
Bella’s desk is immaculate – her screen locked, in tray neat, an angled photo of her and her mum and dad at a regatta. No sign of the handbag.
Okay, I can do this.
I head confidently into the back office, exhaling when I make it without being questioned. The room is small but tidy. There are two sofas, a kitchenette, a corner desk with...yesss!Her black YSL handbag sits on top, just inviting me over to have a rummage. Quick as anything, I unzip it.
The keys are there, next to a contactless credit card, a driving licence, and a packet of Nurofen. No time to hesitate. I clock the address on her licence – Flat 12, Seafoam Court – pocket the keys and the credit card, then re-zip the bag.
I duck out of the room, stride through the front office and out the main door, nearly colliding with a buggy on the pavement. I toss the mother a dirty look as she apologises and I walk briskly up the street, forcing myself not to run. I can’t draw any attention now.
There’s a key-cutting place further down the road. Behind the counter is a man with a beard so big it looks like it could swallow a padlock. He’s hunched over the machine when I arrive, doesn’t look up at first.
‘Hi, Bella,’ he says eventually, glancing up with a nod of recognition.
Shit, he knows her.‘Hi,’ I reply, trying out the accent, bright and airy. ‘Any chance of doing a rush job for me? I need a spare set of keys.’
