The Shoplifting Mothers' Club (8 page)

And a quite a few steps closer to spending an eternity in hell.

CHELSEA JORDAN SEEMED SURPRISED to see Jessica, despite the meeting having been pre-arranged. ‘Well, well, well. Who would have thought it?’

How come Frieda hadn’t called with the tale of Jessica’s success? Jessica had bent her new friend’s ear – well, associate was probably a better description – for over an hour the night before, until Ronald banged on the door and asked if she was planning to hog the only working toilet
all
night.

Jessica smiled sweetly at her nemesis-turned-business-partner. ‘I thought you knew I was coming.’

Chelsea held out her hand impatiently. ‘Can I have the stock please?’

‘Oh, sorry.’ The two leather jackets, now in plastic to protect them from the muck in the back of her car, were presented. Chelsea cast an experienced glance over the goods, and finally proclaimed that ‘the new girl done good’.

‘That’s two hundred pounds, right?’

Amused at Jessica’s desperation, Chelsea, blonde highlighted hair bouncing with mock enthusiasm, drew a cross over her heart. ‘Right away, I promise. Give me your account details.’

Already prepared, Jessica passed over the Visa account details. ‘You
can
pay into that account, right?’

‘Sure, can’t see why not. What bank is it?’

‘Lloyds.’

‘Consider it done. Now, want to choose another job? We’ve had a load come in just this morning. Word of our business is spreading.’

‘Not surprising. Those coats are worth over five hundred pounds each. It’s a bargain for someone.’

‘Sure is. If I dared to tell hubby about it, he’d have to admit the whole scheme is bloody genius.’

Or that you were bloody insane.

Chelsea beckoned her new accomplice into a slick study with the kind of shiny, brown, modern furniture Jessica hated. There was a nasty set of steel and glass shelves too, she noticed.

The BIB typed in a password and brought up a file in Excel. ‘Here we go, pick something else.’

This list was more eclectic that the last, with a number of hardware items (electric saw and drill) and foodstuffs (caviar and champagne from Harrods). No way was Jessica going to run the gauntlet of security at Harrods.

‘I’ll try the Apple iBook.’ It was six hundred pounds worth – about half the price of a new one.

With a raised eyebrow, Chelsea questioned the choice. ‘You sure? That’s high profile stuff. It takes a sophisticated approach.’

Good point. My approach can hardly be described as ‘sophisticated’.
‘Can someone help me?’

Sighing deeply, as if Jessica had just asked to borrow her only car indefinitely, Chelsea tut-tutted for a few moments, then revealed: ‘Rita is best at this sort of thing. She’ll except a cut for helping you, though.’

Of course she would. Of all the BIBs, Rita was the biggest bitch.

Consulting the computer again, Chelsea said, ‘You should take the two iPhones and iPod too, if you’re doing the laptop. We usually take on the same brand all at once, otherwise the security during the month is stepped up and it is almost impossible to get a hold of the other goods.’

‘But how on earth will I manage all that?’
How on earth will I carry the stuff, for a start?
Jessica imagined herself running, dropping the laptop, falling over it, and getting caught and convicted and once again, suffering at the hands of an unpleasant, hairy female inmate.

It was not a pleasant thought.

‘Look, Rita is a criminal genius. There’s a thousand quid in it for you, one hundred for her. It’s worth a go.’ Chelsea had a thought. ‘Actually, I’d recommend getting extra, if you can. We always get requests for this stuff.’

What? More?
Jessica had the sneaking suspicion that Chelsea actually wanted her to be nabbed by the cops.

Sensing the misgivings, the blonde pointed out that they
were
all in this together. ‘Rita won’t stitch you up, because if she does, she’ll assume you’ll tell on us.’

‘If she stitched me up, I would,’ Jessica replied, sounding a little too much like her eight-year-old daughter.

Chelsea took her shoulder and led her back to the foyer. ‘So, we understand each other. Now, go home, have a rest, and phone Rita tomorrow. I’ll tell her to expect your call.’

Rita’s round face, seemingly more inflated that usual – a product, Jessica guessed, of a recent Botox injection or ten – crumbled at the list of goods.

‘You’re shitting me? Chelsea wants you to do this? Apple laptop, iPods, iPhones . . . they don’t stack this stuff up in goody bags near the front door, you know.’

‘Is there anywhere else that does?’

‘Yes.’ the American glared. ‘LaLa Land.’

Lovely. Got it.

Rita explained ‘You’ve got a few options. Essentially, number one is a snatch and run from the sales desk as you are supposedly ‘paying’.’

‘And what are the downsides, apart from the obvious one of being caught?’

‘You’ll have to outrun the security guard,’ Rita said, with a degree of nonchalance usually displayed by Ronald in the bedroom. ‘Some are unfit, but most could do a decent sprint alongside a professional athlete, so I wouldn’t bet on winning.’

So, the snatch and run is out then.
‘And, option number two?’

‘The sickie.’

‘Hah?’

‘You get them to bring out all the stuff, start paying, then feel sick. A heart attack would be appropriate, if you are wearing that Lady Muck disguise.’ Rita mimicked the probable conversation: ‘‘
Are you okay, madam?’; ‘Yes, yes, keep packing’; ‘Would you like me to call a doctor or someone in your family?’; ‘No, no. I’ll be okay, I really need the things today’.’

‘And then I run?’ That didn’t really make sense.

‘No, you ask them to call an ambulance. That’s when you realise you don’t have your credit card on you. But you’re in a hurry. Someone is going overseas. And it’s a big sale, so the shop assistant doesn’t want to lose the commission. You ask them to hold the goods, and say that your friend, spouse, whoever will be back to collect the parcels.’

‘Right. And then what?’

‘They pack the stuff up, take the security tags off it, put it in a nice bag.’

Where is this going?

‘Then, miraculously, you say you feel better, just need some fresh air and you’ll be back.’

‘Yes . . .’ This was the worst plan Jessica had heard since Paul had wanted to build an ant farm in the fish tank.

‘And you go outside, and call the electonics store from a payphone and say some kids have just boasted they stole from the store. Hopefully, the security guard goes after them, at which point, you do your snatch and grab.’

What?
‘But he could catch me on the outside.

Rita, pissed at her own idea being snubbed, snorted in distain. ‘All the stock is computerised. And you’d need some sort of personnel card.’

They both sat, glaring at each other. ‘How about this? The first plan you outlined – with sick Lady Muck. But I use that fire device and run?’

The American cocked her head. ‘Might work. You’d still have to outrun the guard, though. He’ll be on the door for sure, hurrying people out because of the alarm.’

Get a bag with similar-sized products, get the real goods packed up, then realise you’ve lost your wallet and set off to get it, leaving your bag and taking theirs.’

That didn’t sound as ridiculous as the other plans.

Rita groaned. ‘I can’t do everything, Jessica. Think for yourself, will you? There are a million ways you could get an AD carry bag.’ She looked around Jessica’s kitchen, which still had its seventies vinyl countertops and vile lime green tiles.

‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ Jessica was eager to change the subject. Being a thief was becoming remarkably like learning a new trade – boring and scary all at once.

Rita shrugged. ‘It’s retro. If you’re lucky, you’ll be back in fashion.’

Standing to switch on the kettle, Jessica continued to steer the conversation away from the task at hand. Always one to mull over a problem, she needed to have a think about the ‘bag’ scenario on her own – without Rita’s foul expression clouding her judgement. ‘So, how long have you lived in the UK?’

‘Too long,’ Rita said quickly, then obviously regretted it, because she gave a little twitch, as if to say
shouldn’t have gone there.

‘How come you moved?’ Two mugs in hand, Jessica brought them back to the table, conscious of the fact that she didn’t have any biscuits to offer the BIB.

Rita tipped three sugars into the tea, and stirred violently. ‘I met my husband, of course. And he was offered a job in London than remains too good to refuse. I’d go back tomorrow, if I could.’

‘Surely a banker could be redeployed easily?’

‘We’re used to the benefits now. Housing, schooling subsidies, health care – our standard of living would drop dramatically if we went back to Houston.’

‘Whatever.’ Rita stood up and walked to the fridge. Clearly speaking of families was a little too close for comfort. ‘I need something cold. Got any wine in here?’

It’s ten in the morning!
‘Sorry. How about some home brand squash?’

‘Really? You’re that hard up?’

‘Yes, we are.’ No sense in hiding it, was there? ‘My husband believes that charity begins at home and extends to feeling an affinity with those on the breadline.’

Christ, she was speaking from experience!
‘Are you saying . . .’

‘I’m just trying to help, Jessica. That’s all, now, let me pour a glass of,’ she held up the bottle, ‘orange and lemon cordial, and we can go back to your scheme.’

That night, her mother called, ‘just to say hi’, and Jessica knew immediately that things had deteriorated.

‘Do you need me to come and help?’ The question had been asked and answered before, but Jessica felt guilty that her mother was dealing with the Alzheimer’s all by herself.

But her mother didn’t sound sure. And Jessica knew that the right thing to do was tell Ronald to look after the kids and go back home and help with Dad.
But doing what was right wasn’t always available to us, was it?

THE SCHEME, AS RITA called it, wasn’t brilliant, and Jessica asked Frieda for additional help. ‘You only need one large bag for it to work,’ Frieda told her as they sat in Starbucks – Frieda’s treat. ‘How about you’re poor and need stuff to burn for your fire.’

Another long wait before she spoke. ‘Well, think about it carefully. AD aren’t going to just let you wander out with a truckload of their stuff. In fact, I’m surprised Chelsea let you do this one. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she wanted you to get caught.’