‘Oh, good point. Found them in a skip.’
‘Excellent. Yes. A skip where?’
‘In some country town on the way to Sussex. Can’t recall the name.’
‘You’re getting the hang of it.’
I’m not sure I want to. ‘Thanks.’
‘Right, you’ve got the gear, let’s move to technique.’ Frieda swung open the doors to Rachel’s cupboard. Her two good dresses hung forlornly amongst extra uniform shirts and a few tops and skirts. The lack of stock was pitiful. ‘Gosh, you are frugal when it comes to kids’ clothes, aren’t you? Personally, I can’t help but buy Annika everything I see that might suit her.’
Frieda’s daughter Annika Shieklehorn was a tubby child with a sweet disposition and a notoriously grubby reputation. According to Rachel, her nickname was The Soiled Shiek. The pretty embroidered dresses that she was shoehorned into didn’t help matters, either. Jessica made a mental note not to mention ‘shoehorn’ to Rachel, least it become a new epithet for the poor child.
‘Clearly, I’m not turning to crime because I’m bored, Frieda,’ Jessica snapped. The crushed expression on the Norwegian’s face immediately made her feel guilty. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. Things have been so stressful lately – the operation, Ronald’s job. I just want things to get easier.’
‘A nice income can make a big difference,’ Frieda said, quickly accepting the apology. Unlike her mate Chelsea, she wasn’t one to hold a grudge. ‘Now, let’s get on with it.’ She picked up her handbag, which was a particularly nice DKNY shopper, and threw it at Jessica. ‘Steal something?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Pretend this is a shop, and steal something from that wardrobe.’
‘Oh.’ Put on the spot, Jessica felt extremely self-conscious. I am never going to be able to successfully steal. I’ll be caught in a minute.
She wandered over to the cupboard, and began flicking through the clothes ‘on offer’. Taking up the red velvet frock her mother had bought Rachel for Christmas last year, she held it up, then looked left and right and quickly bundled it up and shoved in the bag.’
Frieda was sitting on the bed, shaking her head.
‘Not good?’
‘You look like you’re in some sort of situation comedy. Are you actually trying to be arrested?’
‘Obviously not.’
‘Right, let me show you one of the tried and tested way us girls have perfected.’
Frieda walked up to the wardrobe, took out the two dresses, held each up, then called out: ‘Shop assistant? Could you help me?’
Jessica sat mutely until she realised that Frieda meant her. ‘Oh, yes. Do you need something?’
‘Yes, could I try these on? The girl I am buying them for is small, like me.’
‘Why do you need to try them on?’ Jessica asked.
‘You are going for leather jackets. They will have extra security – those chains through the sleeves. The only way to legitimately get them removed is to try them on.’
‘Or buy them.’
‘Which kind of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? So, back to role play . . . you’ve tried them on, then you say: ‘I was wondering if you had these in any other sizes?’.’
‘Hah?
‘Just go with it,’ Frieda hissed. As nice as she was, Jessica was proving a difficult student.
‘Right, well, not sure, I’ll check . . .’
‘In the meantime, do you mind if I check these outside for colour? I am trying to match a pair of shoes.’
‘Oh, sure.’
Frieda walked to the door, and disappeared. After waiting a few moments, Jessica walked to the door and peered about. ‘Frieda? Where did you go?’
The chubby blonde poked her head around the bathroom door. ‘Exactly.’
‘But surely they don’t let you just take the stock into the street without watching you?’
‘Oh yes they do. Because you are immaculately dressed in your disguise, and they are busy and they figure someone like you wouldn’t blatantly steal from them, not after going to all the trouble of trying the clothes on.’
‘But these stores have security guards, don’t they?’
‘Yes, but if you ask them for their opinion, then fuss about holding the dress this way and that, they eventually look away, and that’s when you get away.’
‘Don’t they chase you?’
‘Sometimes, but you’ve already planned your escape. Make sure there is another store or a café with a toilet nearby, where you can hide out.’
Jessica was still confused. ‘Surely the security guard will run after you? What about CCTV?’
‘It doesn’t matter, because you’re wearing a disguise.’
I thought she was kidding about that. ‘A disguise?’
‘Of course. Otherwise, how on earth would we get away with it?’
‘What sort of disguise?’
‘We have a few that we rotate, but my favourite is Lady Muck.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Glasses on a chain, grey wig with bun attached, expensive Burberry suit – pinched from a leading department store, of course – and neat Tod’s shoes, also pilfered. You change your accent so that your vowels would cut ice, and bingo. Completely trustworthy. Just make sure to wear something you can walk about in beneath the suit – there isn’t always a lot of time to get changed.’
Jessica felt sick. Wearing a disguise; stealing expensive coats. It wasn’t her. Could she really go through with this?
Noticing the apprehensive look, Frieda told Jessica that the first time was the worst. ‘After that, it becomes a buzz. Sometimes, it’s even fun.’
You don’t say. Jessica wondered what on earth a nice person like Frieda, who clearly didn’t need the money, was doing stealing.
But when she asked, Frieda changed the subject, suggesting they look at the disguises she bought with her.
‘They’re down in the boot of the car – I’ll run down.’
Listening to the descending footsteps, Jessica pondered the evasion of the question. Frieda Shieklehorn had secrets.
Didn’t they all? Well, decided Jessica, she could keep them. There was enough intrigue in her life without worrying about a rich woman’s addiction to shoplifting.
A while later, Frieda had imparted all the wisdom she could before having to leave for a nail appointment, and Jessica was left alone with the implements of theft. Fingering the grey wig, she decided that she needed more time to think, and called her mother for the latest horrible escapades of her father.
It seemed anything was better that dealing with her own problems, including hearing how her dad had attempted to hijack a bus and force the driver to take him to the cinema to see a cartoon about a monster.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE JOB – THAT’S WHAT Frieda called it, ‘the job’ – was scheduled for the next Monday morning, around 11:00 a.m. ‘No one expects a theft first thing on a Monday,’ she told Jessica over the phone. ‘Your average thief is usually still in bed recovering from the weekend.’
Jessica hoped she was right.
‘What is wrong with you this morning?’ Ronald exclaimed, when Jessica accidentally tipped tea in his lap rather than his cup.
‘Nothing, why?’
‘Why? I have tea in my bloody lap.’
‘Then pour your own stupid drinks.’ Knowing the response was overly curt, and not wanting to get into a discussion of why, Jessica tried to appease matters by suggesting his favourite pasta for dinner.
‘I’ve got a conference with a new client, so maybe something that can be left on the warmer,’ Ronald said, holding a piece of paper towel to this lap to mop up the tea.
‘The warmer is broken, remember?’ Where had the magic gone from their marriage? Now he didn’t even look at her when they spoke.
Rachel chose that moment to make matters worse. ‘Mummy, can I have a new scooter like Sienna. An electronic one?’
‘You mean an electric one?’
‘Perhaps for your birthday?’
They all looked over at Ronald, who wasn’t listening.
‘Daddy?’
‘Yes, baby?’ He didn’t look up from the paper.
‘Can I have a scooter for my birthday?’
‘We’ll see. They’re expensive.’ Still no eye contact with any of them.
Squeezing her daughter’s hand, Jessica shooed the kids off to get ready for school and prayed that her new ‘job’ went well. Because her husband was becoming less and less a person on whom she could rely.
Turning to stack the dishes in the sink, Jessica didn’t notice Ronald dialling until he spoke – and not to her.
‘Yes, yes. Is that Lloyds? What, my password? What password? Look, just wondering if you could resend my statement, that’s all. I don’t understand why you can’t just . . . no, I don’t have time for additional security questions . . . what? Oh, never mind.’
Staring straight ahead, at the splash back that needed a good clean, Jessica forced herself not to turn around. Not to show interest.
‘Bloody bank. It’s probably a ploy to get you online – and save them money.’
Now Jessica turned around. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘That Visa bill. Still hasn’t arrived. Third month in a row. And what the hell do they mean by some ‘secret password?’
‘I have no idea.’
Ronald got up and called the kids. He had deigned to drop them at the school that morning. ‘If it doesn’t turn up next month I am going down to that bank and demand they print one out for me. Honestly, where have old-fashioned manners gone?’ He left his plate and cup on the table, along with the wet kitchen towel and a tissue. Turning back to busy herself at the sink, Jessica didn’t answer.
That was a good question. Shame Ronald didn’t assume the manners applied to him.
When they’d met – at a uni surf social – Ronald had been a cute third year Law student with a quirky smile and a cheeky, devil-get-stuffed attitude that appealed to Jessica’s cautious nature. At the time, she had waist-length long auburn hair, de-frizzed by the weight of its length, which she pulled from her face with an Alice band. Her friends told her that dressing like a virgin while at uni was a sure fire way to have a rotten time, but Jessica was happy-go-lucky by nature, and her best attribute – a wide, bright smile – tended to attract plenty of attention from men.
So Ronald bought her a drink, snogged her at dawn on the lawn in front of the Chemistry building, and they’d been together ever since. Sometimes, she thought back to that time and contemplated Ronald’s motivation for dating her. He was already agitating various businesses to donate to his charity, and there were many times they attended five-star functions at posh London hotels so that the ambitious lawyer could ‘press the flesh’. Had that been the plan all along? Find someone, anyone, who would make a decent wife and companion – someone who wouldn’t expect glamour and money from a lawyer husband – and simply settle?
Because that’s what it felt like: Ronald had settled on Jessica, and for her part, Jessica allowed herself to be the doormat he desired. They hardly communicated anymore, and as for sex . . . it had never been great, but now it was a perfunctory act between two intelligent people who figured once or twice a year was enough to ensure they still had some sort of marriage to speak of.
But now there were children involved, so what could be done? Jessica loved Ronald, more than he love her, it seemed. Perhaps, when the money situation eased off a little, they could begin to reconnect?
If what they’d enjoyed when they’d first met was actually a connection in the beginning, that was.
Looking around the messy kitchen, with its crumby table and unswept floor, Jessica decided the dirt could wait.
And went upstairs to begin her foray into crime.
She wasn’t meeting Frieda before the ‘job’, because the Club (as the thieving BIBs called themselves), didn’t go near each other when the heists took place in case another was unnecessarily caught. So, Jessica was left with her own thoughts of probable capture, jail and a close relationship with a butch, bearded woman in some prison far away from her family.
‘It’s not too late to back out,’ Frieda had said, when Jessica called to voice her concerns.
‘I can’t. Rachel’s new face has to be paid for. And you’ve been doing it for a couple of years, haven’t you? You’ve survived.’
‘I get a kick out of it – and before you say it, I know it’s not normal. You’re doing it for entirely different reasons.’
Jessica wondered about Frieda. Why would someone with a lovely, wealthy family risk it all for amusement? Stealing would be the last thing Jessica would be doing if she was Frieda. Or Chelsea, Hailey and Rita, for that matter. What worried her was, with the absence of the sporting element that the others obviously had, Jessica was likely to fail where the BIBs succeeded. You’re always better at something when you enjoy it, aren’t you?
It’s not too late. It’s not too late.
Thinking of the Visa statement, Jessica forced herself to turn into the car park of the large neighbouring town of Milton.
Yes it was! The money was spent.
Switching off the engine, Jessica picked up the bag that contained her disguise, and made her way to the car park loos, careful to put up the hood on her jacket and keep her face down so as to avoid any chance of being caught on surveillance cameras. Frieda had also shown her how to park away from a camera, then walk to the carpark toilets on a different floor, to help to avoid CCTV detection.
‘Little safeguards,’ she had assured Jessica. ‘You just never know how far a store might go to try and locate you.’
Thinking of this advice now, Jessica slunk into the toilets, and quickly changed into her Lady Muck outfit. The skirt was more than a little tight – she was much larger in the bum than Hailey, who usually wore it – and the glasses and pins in the bun pinched uncomfortably, but after she’d slipped on the sensible mid-heeled patent shoes and took in the result, Jessica had to admit she looked nothing like her real self. And certainly, didn’t appear to be a person who could break into a sprint at the first sign of trouble.
Putting the hoodie and flats she was wearing into a carrier from an exclusive shop on Bond Street (provided by Rita), Jessica held tightly to the pale blue shopper (also provided by Rita), and marched resolutely from the loos.
Here it goes.
Two leather coats coming up, and two hundred pounds guaranteed.
It was easy.
On paper.
CHAPTER NINE
THE SHOP WAS LARGE enough to have the guarantee of several shoppers milling about at one time, but small enough not to have constant CCTV surveillance and a security guard on the door. Leather Look London was, according to Hailey (because Jessica didn’t have a clue), the place to get a stylish piece of leatherwear, which meant that the prices were hugely inflated. If you owned a Harley Davidson and only rode it on the weekends or for show, this was the shop for you.
Walking in, Jessica was immediately accosted by a perky sales assistant. How can these shop girls be so ‘up’ on a Monday? ‘Hi there? Looking for a gift?’
Feeling affronted and more than a little annoyed that the girl couldn’t see from her face that Jessica was only in her early thirties, she reminded herself that the disguise was working. Being pissed off that people bought the deception was counterproductive. But for someone to believe, without even a second glance, that she was early sixties . . . ? The disguise is working, just get on with it.
‘Presents for my granddaughter and grandson, actually,’ Jessica replied, smiling, the well-rehearsed lies rolling off her tongue.
‘Right,’ the shop assistant reacted as if stung, sensing a commission. Poor thing. ‘For proper use, or fashion purposes?’
‘Fashion. They’ve given me the style numbers, if that helps?’ Jessica passed over a card on which Chelsea had printed the details of the two required items. There was
no point in stealing the wrong items – the Club had to return any cash received for them, and couldn’t resell them elsewhere, in case they were rumbled with stolen goods.
‘Right, yes. Says here you need a size 8 and a 10 in the bomber. Come with me.’ She led the way to a rack near the registers at the back and stopped at a well-alarmed rack of brown leather jackets. They were dotted with patches from NASA and the like. ‘Size 10, here we go.’
Jessica expected her to offer to take it off the chains, but the girl stood there expectantly.
‘Could I try it on, do you think? And the other one, too.’
The girl blinked. ‘Really? You?’
‘Just for sizing, dear,’ Jessica said, playing the part of a granny. ‘If it fits me, it fits them, you see.’
So the girl asked Jessica to wait in the fitting rooms and said she’d bring both jackets. ‘Oh no, it’s okay. I’ll try them on at the counter.’
Without a second thought the girl took the items off the heavy, locked chains and Jessica slid the first, the size 8, over her own jacket. She cast an eye around the counter, just like Frieda had shown her. Wait until it’s really busy, then make your move. She fiddled about, looking at the lining, checking the pockets, until the other sales assistant, a boy, went into the stock room. At the front of the store, the security guard was checking out the backside of a young girl in shorts, who was reaching up for a leather vest.
The Shoplifting Mothers' Club Page 5