The Shoplifting Mothers' Club (5 page)

‘Are you sure?’ Chelsea queried. ‘You haven’t been in the store they mention before, have you?’

What on earth was she talking about?

‘No, that, er, problem was in Goldsmiths in Westfields at Shepherds Bush. Can’t go back there.’ She looked at the details of the ring again. ‘I can manage a local family-run affair, don’t worry.’

‘Fine, the ring is yours.’

‘I’ll do the wallet,’ Rita said. ‘I need to get a birthday present for my niece in the States, anyway. Always good to combine it with a genuine purchase.’

Do the wallet? Genuine purchase? What did it all mean?

‘There’s a top from Vuitton as well. Can you manage both?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

Chelsea ticked off the items on her copy. ‘There are five River Island items, I’ll do them all. Which just leaves Frieda and Jessica.’

One of whom had no idea what was going on.

‘I’ll do the Links and Tiffany’s stuff,’ Frieda stated casually.

The others seemed to think this was a good idea. Apparently, Frieda had a knack for brand name jewellery.

What on earth was this?

Too uncomfortable to ask, Jessica pointed at the sheet. ‘What does RR mean?’ she said, indicating P. Clunes and the Aston Martin.

‘Repeat request,’ said Rita. ‘If we don’t get to it by the month’s end, the client gets their money back, or they can leave the money with us, and we get another month.’

‘Get another month? To do what?’

They looked at each other. Frieda patted Jessica’s hand. ‘To get the item for the client. You see, we have a website – members only – and our clients place requests on it for items. Those amounts are what they are willing to pay for each item. They pay online first, and we ship the goods when we have them. If something goes wrong, or we can’t get the item, we immediately refund.’

Jessica forced herself to make sense of what Frieda was saying. So they acted like middlemen – or women. ‘But if they state the price, how can you be sure you can find it for less, so that you can make money on it?’

The four other women in the room sported various expressions – from ‘what a moron’ to ‘poor, deluded fool’.

Chelsea finally filled her in. ‘We don’t pay for the items, that’s how.’

Oh no. Did she mean . . .

‘We are professional shoplifters Jessica. We steal to order.’

What? Surely not. These rich bitches, who seemingly had everything, were thieves?

‘It makes sense, once you see our business model.’

The room was spinning. Ronald would have a fit if he knew she was even involved in the conversation, let alone more. ‘Business model?’

Chelsea let Rita take the floor. ‘Yes, it was originally my idea. Well, mine and Chelsea’s. You see, we remain totally anonymous. We don’t meet the clients, they don’t meet us. And they pay up front – the money is what they are willing to pay for an item, including a courier delivery from a mailing centre in London.’

Frieda piped up. ‘One of us takes the goods in, all at once. We take it in turns.’

They actually seemed to think this was a good idea. And a legitimate business.

‘Each of us has particular skills. Chelsea is brilliant with clothes. She can manage to work a CCTV camera so that there is never a sign she is doing more than admiring the clothes.’

‘And Frieda is adept at jewellery, reckons it’s all the card tricks her grandfather taught her when they were little.’

‘I tend to use the ‘distract and run like hell’ technique,’ Hailey revealed, indicating her long, too-brown legs. ‘So, I can do anything, but I can’t return to the same places more than once.’

And that left Rita, who simply said she’d ‘take any job on offer, provided it earned her at least one hundred quid’. ‘You don’t want to risk getting banged up for less than that, do you?’

Risk going to jail?

Jessica wondered what the ramifications for Rachel would be if she simply got up and ran off?

Chelsea cleared her throat. ‘I am sure that won’t be a problem. None of us has even come close to getting caught. Except for Hailey, that is. I mean . . .’ She shook out her blonde hair ‘. . . who would suspect us? Now, Jessica, any questions?’

About a trillion; starting with, are you all insane?

The first question was the most obvious one. ‘Aren’t you worried you’ll eventually get caught?’

‘No,’ they all twittered in a chorus.

Frieda explained. ‘Firstly, we don’t just go to an establishment without knowing exactly what we are doing. We take our business seriously, Jessica – we’re not amateurs, you know.’

‘We practise. Film each other in Chelsea’s living room, so that we can see what the CCTVs are seeing.’

‘But don’t you feel it’s wrong?’

‘We aren’t pinching things from people’s homes, Jessica,’ Rita snapped. ‘These big shops budget for theft. It’s a tax deducation.’

‘Oh,’ Jessica said.

‘And let’s face it, we give the money back to the community. Often, we spend our earnings in the same shops.’

Could she hear herself? Rita’s flawed logic was mind boggling.

‘So, Jessica,’ said Chelsea. ‘Take a look at the list. What would you like to try?’

They were all waiting. Rita murmured something about Jessica looking ‘ready to bolt’ but deep down, Jessica felt there was no choice. Save her marriage, and get rid of that Visa bill, or spiral downwards until they were reliant on the school lunches to give the kids a decent daily meal. Even finding the cash to pay the minimum on the Visa was almost an impossible task.

‘Well?’ Hailey asked, bored with the intrigue. Hailey looked the type to become easily bored by just about anything. Except, obviously, tanning clinics. ‘Well?’ she said again.

It was the traditional pact with the devil and Jessica wondered if she had to guts to sell her soul.

‘Can I think about it?’ she asked. ‘After all, it is a bit of a shock, finding out what the work actually is.’

‘Fine, just don’t tell anyone,’ Rita said again. ‘If you do, your little Rachel will discover she won’t have a friend in the world until she leaves for university.’

‘Rita,’ Frieda was horrified. ‘That’s not nice.’

‘I don’t trust her,’ Rita said. ‘She’s not one of us. I mean, look at those clothes. What are they?
Jeggings
?’

‘Leggings, actually.’ Jessica had spent two hours on Sunday afternoon picking out the outfit. A faded Monsoon top teamed with her trusty black leggings and boots. Obviously, she hadn’t made the grade.

But Chelsea had decided that Jessica could be trusted, and Chelsea was the alpha female. ‘Let us know tomorrow. Frieda can help you get started if you want to go ahead. The moment the goods are delivered to me, the money gets transferred to your account. I do everything online.’

‘Thanks to Frieda’s skills with those internet thingies,’ Hailey added.

Momentarily forgetting they were speaking of committing crimes and becoming caught up in the possibilities, Jessica asked, ‘Could you arrange payment to a credit card, instead of an account?’

Chelsea grinned, sensing they’d gained a new accomplice. ‘Anywhere you want. The minute you give me the . . .’ she looked at the list, ‘. . . black leather trench and brown leather bomber jacket, two hundred quid will be yours.’ She led Jessica to the door. ‘Think about it. A few minutes work and you’re a couple of hundred pounds richer. And nothing can be traced back to you. As long as we all keep our mouths shut, we are all safe. That’s the bottom line – no one tells. Ever!’

The final words were accompanied by a vicious look that made Jessica shiver. When she was left in the driveway, looking over the 4x4s lined up like premier athletes, her pathetic little car in amongst them, Jessica thought the cars indicated the perfect metaphor for how she felt: a tiny speck of dissent in a mountain of ebullience.

What on earth would Ronald say if he knew? Given how he reacted when it came to Rachel’s huge, gaping scar, right then, Jessica Maroni didn’t much care.

‘I GOT A JOB today.’ Jessica watched the reaction on the faces on of her family as they ate dinner. Nothing from the kids, who were too busy trying to sneak glances at the telly through the glass door of the dining room, and feigned interest from Ronald. This wasn’t surprising. Apparently he was ‘shattered’ by some new case, and still had ‘mountains’ of witness statements to get through before morning. Jessica had heard it all before, but she was disappointed that he couldn’t appreciate the effort she was making to keep the family in what her mother might call ‘a good place’.

Especially given he couldn’t begin to comprehend the sacrifices she was willing to make to do it.

‘Something in town?’ he asked.

Sort of.

‘Yes. Working in a shop.’

Working over shops, more like.
The more Jessica considered the prospect of actually stealing, the more she convinced herself it was an insane notion that should be immediately discarded. But then the Visa bill that was rolled up in a sock in her underwear drawer came to mind, and the sorry realisation dawned. She actually had no other choice. They’d never pay that bill off, not at thirty pounds a month. And even if they did, they couldn’t actually afford thirty quid a month in the first place.

She thought about what Chelsea had said. They stole from large chains, companies that could presumably write-off lost stock – or were insured against theft. There was no sentimental value attached to pinching from such places, was there?

If Elise knew – and it clearly wasn’t possible to tell her – she would say that the cops wouldn’t differentiate between stealing from someone’s home, or a shop. Theft was theft. Pure and simple.

‘Like paying bills, you mean?’
When had the love of her life turned into such a condescending bastard?

‘Exactly.’

‘I’m doing it so that we can buy the kids some of the necessities, Ronald.’

But Ronald had stood up and was picking his way through the toy fort Paul had constructed all over the wood floor of the kitchen. ‘Got to get back to work.’ His empty plate and glass were left for Jessica to clean up.

Snatching up the remnants of dinner, she stomped to the sink and began the lonely ritual of cleaning, again.

Why not give it a go? If those four BIBs had managed not to get arrested, surely Jessica could manage it too?

She was due to meet with Frieda tomorrow, for some tips on how to go about stealing without getting caught. It might be prudent to wait and see what the seemingly sensible Norwegian had to say and make a proper decision then.

Yes.
‘What? Why on earth would you ask that?’

‘Sienna says I’m poor, because I don’t have new things, or go on holidays, or have a big car.’

Kneeling down, Jessica took her daughter’s small hands in hers. ‘Being rich isn’t about money, baby. It’s about being loved, having a family who love you. All we need is enough food, a warm place to sleep and each other. And we’ve got that, haven’t we?’

Rachel looked over Jessica’s shoulder towards the box room. ‘Does Daddy think we’re rich, too?’

‘Of course, sweetie. Like I said, we’d got all we need. Poor Sienna must be dreadfully unhappy to want to make other children sad.’

‘She doesn’t seem unhappy. Not with that new iPhone.’

The logic of children.
Sensing that eight year olds couldn’t quite get the concept of happiness not equating to material possessions, Jessica told Rachel not to worry about iPhones and the like. ‘Things will get better, but in the meantime, you must remember there are many children who don’t have a lovely home, or plenty of hot food to eat, or even a mummy or daddy.’

Jessica gave up. The questions were ones she couldn’t, in good faith, answer honestly. ‘How about a hot chocolate? I think I might even have a few marshmallows left over in the cupboard.’

Why had she not seen it before? And what could she do about it now? Their sort didn’t divorce – not without good reason. And a selfish lawyer for a husband who looked like a saint to the outside world didn’t qualify as a good reason.

Frieda looked around Jessica’s home with interest. ‘It’s much bigger than it looks from the outside. This must be worth a tidy sum.’

It was only 10:00 a.m. and since dropping Rachel and Paul off, Jessica had frantically run about cleaning and tidying to ensure that the BIB didn’t see the way they
really
lived and reported back to the others. ‘Yes, it needs a lot of work, though.’ The kitchen was one of those seventies’ horrors that was
never
in fashion, even when new.