Read The Shoplifting Mothers' Club Online
Authors: Geraldine Fonteroy
The Shoplifting Mothers' Club (4 page)
Her mother didn’t respond negatively – she wasn’t that sort of person – but Jessica could imagine the thought bubble hovering above her head:
You could have done so much better.
Yes, but who have thought Ronald would commit them so profoundly to a life of penury? When they were young, he’d spoken of an eventual ‘proper’ job, with bonuses and profit share. Now, there was no mention of anything but the need to cut costs. Inflation was on the rise, but his income was on the decline. And for all his smarts, her dear darling husband couldn’t seem to do the sums.
Or didn’t care to, which was worse. Far worse.
‘Darling, you there?’
‘Sorry, yes. I’ll try and come visit soon, okay?’ Jessica hated that she had to save for petrol, just to visit her parents.
‘Give our love to Rachel. Tell her I’ll pop a little something in the post. For them both, of course.’
‘Thanks, I will. And she’ll like that, because she is holed up at home doing nothing right now.’ The only good thing to have come out of the whole roof fall debacle was that Rachel’s plasters meant she couldn’t go to Paris, which put a stop to the worry about the excursion.
After she’d rung off, Jessica sat there a moment, then decided that some extra funds had to be found. Starting a business or whatever else the social services lady had suggested was out of the question – she couldn’t even afford
a phone call
to an accountant.
That meant there was only one decent option left. To ask Chelsea Jordan what her ‘other ways’ to make money were.
To ask and swallow the distaste at dealing with the BIBs.
To ask and pray that the nasty cow hadn’t been taking the piss.
As usual, the BIBs were gathered, hawks salivating for prey, at the front gates of the school. Their 4x4s were dotted, illegally parked on the zigzagging school warning lines, in front of the school. Ronald had referred to the cars as giant handbag holders or lethal, petrol-grubbing cots, and up until that moment, Jessica had agreed. Now, she saw comfortable, reliable vehicles that didn’t get a new ding every time someone went past with a supermarket trolley; cars that started without the aid of a car mechanic and many prayers; cars that had air-conditioning and heating that actually worked.
It was the result of having money, and now, Jessica wanted just a share, to ease her burden.
‘Jessica, how are you?’ Chelsea waved, a cacophony of tinny music accompanying the movement from the genuine gold and silver bracelets stacked onto her right wrist.
The bling on her arm could pay off that Visa bill
, Jessica mused.
‘Come on over,’ Chelsea called again.
Here we go.
Forcing a smile, she walked over to the group of women posed, as if waiting for Annie Liebovitz to happen by, against the wrought iron of the school gates.
Murmuring their hellos, the others looked Jessica up and down and she returned the favour. Hailey Milton-Meyes was a thirty-something brunette with hair extensions so expertly done you’d swear she had natural, bum length tresses in perfect condition; not a sign of a split-end. Like Chelsea, she was rail-thin, and had a full face of makeup on. Unlike Chelsea, Hailey made no concession to the fact it was daytime, and wore heavy mascara and eyeliner which seemed more appropriate to a night at a Halloween ball.
Next her to stood Rita May. Rita was American, from Texas. In honour of her home town, her hair was crafted into a gravity-defying ‘do’ on top of her perfectly formed head. It was a strange peach colour, but it somehow suited her fake-tanned complexion. Unlike Hailey, Rita’s makeup was subtle, but Rita had skin to die for, smooth and clear, so she clearly wanted to show it off to its full potential. Rita was Chelsea’s second-in-charge when it came to bitching and bullying. She’d once told Jessica, looking straight at Rachel, that it was unfortunate that in England, government schools were full of children who were so badly brought up. Jessica had replied that at least the children here don’t shoot up half the school with a sawn-off-shotgun, which had caused the American to shut up for about a minute.
Finally, there was the anomaly. Frieda Shieklehorn. Originally from Norway, she’d had the misfortune to marry an English banker and end up permanently residing thousands of miles from her family. To compensate for her loss, she ate, and was, therefore, at least a size 10, possibly a 12 during the darker of the winter months. Jessica couldn’t quite understand why Frieda bothered with the other three, but loneliness enticed you to do stupid things, didn’t it?
It was Frieda who invited Jessica to stand next to her. She immediately asked about Rachel, at which point the other three twittered their offerings of ‘
Poor little thing’; ‘Oh yes, how is she?’; ‘Glad to see her back at school’.
‘I hear you went private on the op?’ Chelsea’s eyes blazed. ‘That must have cost?’
‘Yes, but the scar is healing nicely. You can barely see it.’
‘Was the surgeon hot?’ Hailey asked, and Rita coughed out a laugh in response. Rita didn’t seem to ever truly laugh; just kind of reluctantly hacked up hilarity as if it hurt to be happy.
‘Not really,’ Jessica said.
‘So, how you gonna pay for the surgeon?’ Rita asked mischievously. ‘Chelsea said you were having money troubles.’
‘Married to a lawyer and she has money problems? What do you do, use fivers to wipe your arses on?’ Hailey high-fived Rita at her revolting joke, and Jessica almost walked away right there and then. But the mental image of Ronald finding the Visa statement, of opening it, and seeing the balance kept her feet firmly planted.
‘He works for a charity. Actually, he established it.’
‘Did he fail uni or something?’ Hailey asked.
Frieda came to her aid. ‘It’s good, helping people. I want to help in that little clothing place down the road.’
‘Help for the Infirm and Revolting?’ Rita was incredulous. ‘You do that, and I won’t be able to come near you thanks to the stench of mould and mildew.’
Nice. Really nice.
Chelsea was suddenly bored with the mocking and turned to address the others. ‘So, I spoke to Jessica about joining our little enterprise.’
That shut them up. The other three moved their gazes between Chelsea and Jessica as if they were watching a tennis match.
‘Her?’
‘No way.’
Even Frieda said: ‘Would Jessica enjoy it?’
‘I told you I was asking her,’ Chelsea retorted, unperturbed by the looks of horror on the faces of her friends.
‘That was when we thought the husband was a proper lawyer.’ Rita furrowed her brow. ‘You know, one who scams his clients for everything he can get. She won’t have the right attitude, if she’s actually poor.’
Jessica stared at Chelsea. The later patted the former on the back condescendingly. ‘Little Jessica is in need, girls, and who are we not to show her how we manage to make ends meet.’
‘I’m with Rita,’ Hailey said. ‘That husband sounds far too geeky. Do him good to see the family in some fancy designer threads.’
Where these women serious?
Vacuous was too nice a term to apply to them.
Chelsea looked over at Frieda, who seemed to flinch at the attention. ‘What do you think?’
There was a pause, then the Norwegian smiled. ‘I agree with you Chelsea. If Jessica needs money, then she should join.’ She turned to Jessica. ‘They helped me when I needed it.’
Ah, that explains it. Frieda has some ulterior motive for being a BIB.
Chelsea actually thumped her Dior clutch as if her hand was a gavel and she was leading a boardroom – and not standing propped up against a school gate. ‘Well, given that the whole business was my idea, and that I run it, I think I get the ruling vote.’ Her voice increased in pitch. ‘Jessica, you’re in.’
A smattering of insincere clapping ensued. Jessica didn’t know whether to be happy or frightened, but there wasn’t time for questions. Their daughters appeared, and Rachel, seeing Jessica standing with the BIBs, asking innocently if Jessica ‘was cool’ now.
‘HA!’ coughed Rita. ‘What a cutie.’
But when Jessica caught sight of the American’s face, there wasn’t an iota of genuineness on the red-painted, upturned mouth.
THE MEETING WAS ARRANGED for the next Monday and by Saturday morning, Jessica was ready to cancel. Getting involved with a coven of Burberry-clad bitches wasn’t the way she imagined spending her kids’ school years. Besides, she felt like a total fraud even speaking to them – thanks to the constant stream of supermarket specials on comfort food, Jessica was edging her way to a size 14, and didn’t even care.
‘Where is this month’s Visa bill?’ Ronald was wearing his gardening clothes. His one concession to keeping up appearances was mowing the lawn and trimming the hedges on the weekend.
‘Why?’ Jessica asked in faux innocence.
‘I always check it – so much fraud all over the place – best to know immediately if there are any unauthorized transactions.’
Fraud? He didn’t know the half of it! Now what?
Lie. Again. ‘I don’t know. Royal Mail hasn’t been so regular of late.’
‘Oh, perhaps I should call the bank?’
Julia snapped. ‘Don’t be so pedantic, Ronald, the bloody bill will show up. There are plenty of things to do around the house if you have spare time, you know.’
She immediately regretted the outburst. Ronald wasn’t one to meekly take criticism and back away.
‘What the hell does that mean? I work every hour God sends, and I did warn you of that fact when we married, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you warned me that you loved your work. I stupidly assumed there might be some love in there for me and our children, too.’
Did I really just say that?
‘You lot get everything I earn. And the children were you idea, remember?’
‘How can you be so callous?’
‘What the hell does that mean, Jess?’
‘I think you know, Ronald. You love that charity more than you love us.’
‘That’s rubbish, and you know it.’
‘No, I don’t, that’s the trouble. You are selfish, and you don’t consider us in any of your decisions. You’re not a man; you’re still a boy, playing at your hobby while your children suffer.’
Once the words were out, Jessica knew she was in for the silent treatment for the rest of the weekend, and she wasn’t wrong. He stormed inside, had a shower and went to work. The only good thing to have come out of the argument was that Ronald forgot all about the Visa bill.
By late Sunday night, she was ready for whatever Chelsea and her mates had to offer her, because it was quite clear that her marriage wasn’t what she’d thought it was.
If there was any love between her and Ronald, it was borne out of a continued duty, and nothing more.
Therefore, it was high time she began to do things for herself, and not others.
Chelsea lived on an enormous plot in the dress circle of Clawson: huge electric gates opening onto manicured green turf; massive tubs of shrub sculptures around the swimming pool; French doors with pristinely painted white shutters that perfectly offset the serene and classic painted grey of the stonework. Jessica couldn’t help but marvel at the sight. The house was truly beautiful, and not at all in keeping with Chelsea’s tart-like attire and caked-on war paint. As she drove up and parked, it was impossible not to notice how conspicuous the tiny, banged up Fiat was amongst the four large Range Rovers that had been abandoned under trees in the large, paved drive.
The BIBs were sitting in Chelsea’s opulent kitchen when Jessica arrived. With their matching highlights and tight designer jeans, they looked more like models waiting for a casting than mothers running a business, with the exception of Frieda, who seemed to be sitting uncomfortably in her constrictive outfit. Jessica knew the feeling – tight jeans and a large bottom did not make for ease of movement.
‘Well,’ said Chelsea. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d show up.’
‘And here I am,’ Jessica said brightly.
And if my husband wasn’t a total and utter prat, I might not be.
‘So, let’s get on with it, shall we?’ Rita pulled out a folder and passed around photocopied sheets of paper in an authoritative manner.
Still in the dark as to what the business was all about, Jessica asked, ‘Is this like the Freemasons or something?
Chelsea grinned. ‘Yep, just like that. And,’ she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, ‘you need to be able to keep secrets to get taken on.’
‘She’d better,’ grumbled Rita loudly.
A cappuccino, expertly prepared by Chelsea with the help of an Italian machine (that was actually plumbed in to the granite worktop of the kitchen), was plonked down in front of Jessica, along with a copy of what the others were looking at.
It was a list of names, with different items and values written next to them. Jessica quickly began reading:
W. Smith –
Vuitton
wallet, matching handbag style 2130 – ₤250
L. Bollem –
Sony Bravia
TV – ₤200
C. Cservia –
Links
bracelet style 4434 – ₤100
S. Slimmert –
River Island
Jacket ‘Cordy’ Size 10 - ₤50
M. Talbat – Engagement ring (see image and store address) – ₤1000
RR - P. Clunes –
Aston Martin Vantage
for parts – ₤20000
. . .and so on.
She didn’t get it. ‘What is this?’
Hailey spoke without looking up. ‘A list of clients and their requirements. I’ll take the engagement ring.’