The Shoplifting Mothers' Club (2 page)

But Jessica wasn’t comfortable asking Ronald to change his life for her. The children had been her idea – he hadn’t been keen, although he loved them now, of course he did. But establishing the charity – helping those who desperately needed him – that was his calling, his mission, and she had the uneasy feeling that given an ultimatum, he might well choose his work over Jessica, Rachel and Paul.

‘Are you listening, Jess?’

‘What, yes. Maybe that working from home thing has some merit? Perhaps I’ll look in the local paper, see what’s what?’

‘It’s a start, but the easiest thing is for Ronald to go be a proper lawyer. One of the fathers in Paul and Zack’s class is a partner in some firm, and they just bought that three million pound pile down by the grammar school.’

It was alright for Elise, her husband was a local doctor: nine to five and a great thumping salary, courtesy of the tax-payer, to boot. Every penny Ronald earned came from money he himself had to coax out of a minority willing to donate to the cause. And at the moment, immigration wasn’t a cause that attracted much support. ‘Stuff them, why not help English kiddies who are starving in this country, mate’, was a common theme when Ronald approached a prospective sponsor.

‘I’ll talk to him,’ Jessica said, fiddling with her tea cup, knowing that she wouldn’t. Instead, she’d lose sleep worrying about the Paris trip, and see if there was a way to cut back even more than she had.

Elise called to Zack and replied, pointedly, that she should. ‘It wouldn’t be fair if Rachel was the only one in that French class who didn’t get to go. I could lend it to you, you know . . .’

Declining politely, as she always did when Elise offered, Jessica promised once again to talk to Ronald, because she simply didn’t want to discuss it further.

ON THE WAY TO school the next morning, Jessica broached the subject of the Paris trip, and Rachel burst into loud, sobbing tears. The little girl had been on the cusp of an outburst since sighting the flat cupcakes without icing first thing in the morning – Jessica had never been good at baking, particularly when trying to do so by keeping to a budget.

‘Sweetheart, what’s wrong?’

‘I know I can’t go,’ she cried, curly blonde hair shaking violently in sympathy with the childish hysteria. ‘Sienna says it’s because we are poor as church mice.’

And how would she do that in any case? They didn’t own a satellite TV, and couldn’t afford videos.

‘Do you have the excursion note, baby?’

Rachel pulled out a crumpled scrap from her bag, and at the single set of traffic lights between them and school, Jessica quickly read it through. The trip to Paris, she’d discovered, was one hundred and nineteen pounds. Hardly a fortune – unless you were the Maronis, that was.

‘Let me talk to Daddy again,’ Jessica said, as she pulled up in front of the school.

‘Daddy only cares about the children of ingrates, and not us,’ said Paul, taking his bag up and sliding along the seat to get out of the car.

‘Paul! Where did you hear that?’

‘One of the boys in my class told me his mother said it.’

Great
. Now their poverty was a topic of conversation in the third grade as well as the fourth. ‘That’s just silly. Daddy loves you both very much.’

Rachel threw open the door. ‘No he doesn’t. Paul is right. All he cares about are other people’s children. It’s sick and I hate it. And him! And this whole family.’

And with that, she stomped off towards the imposing Victorian building that housed Berry Street Primary, followed eagerly by her younger brother, who didn’t quite get that his older sister had just declared her hatred of him, too.

‘Bye, then,’ she called, to no one in particular, because the kids weren’t listening.

And Jessica was left to another day alone.

And to the tears that were now rapidly falling onto her ratty grey jumper, which had been washed to within an inch of its long life.

It was unfortunate, because the minute the tears came, so did the Range Rover belonging to Chelsea Jordon. The BIB stared down into Jessica’s aging Fiat, amusement evident by the familiar smirk.

‘Let me guess?’ she called. ‘Hayfever?’

What a cow.
‘Yep, spring air,’ she replied, quickly reaching for a tissue.

‘Let me buy you a cappuccino,’ Chelsea called, ignoring the angry tooting of the cars behind. She was blocking Jessica in, so no one could move. And Jessica couldn’t escape.

‘Oh, I have so many things to do today,’ Jessica said.
Like poking my fingers in my eyes, or setting myself on fire.

‘Come on. I get freebies at that new place in town. Friend of my hubby owns it.’

‘Really, I’ve got so much to do and . . .’

‘I’ll throw in a muffin. Skinny blueberry and apple. To die for. Come on, I hate having coffee alone.’ The tooting was intensifying, but Chelsea didn’t look at all flustered.
How did she do it? It might be worth a coffee just to discover the answer to that question.

A gruff voice called from down the street. ‘Move it you stupid cow. You’re blocking the road.’

‘Calm down,’ Chelsea replied, smiling sweetly at a white van man who seemed to be fitting in anger at the wheel. ‘You’re breakfast buttie will still be there.’

Deciding they might be sitting there all day if she didn’t relent, Jessica nodded and agreed to follow her nemesis. Free coffee was free coffee, even with a bitch in Burberry. And what’s the worst that could happen? Apart from food poisoning and a probable attempted murder on Jessica’s part, that was.

The ‘new place’ was more a bar than a café, but it was trying to capture some of the lucrative coffee mums’ market and was packed to the rafters with prams, screeching kids and au pairs eager to cash in on the one pound coffee offer that was advertised on a stylish blackboard in a Rococo frame over a large fireplace and on a similarly stylish sandwich board outside.

‘This is nice, I’ve never been here,’ Jessica said, trying to keep the conversation away from the Paris trip.

‘So, is Rachel going to Paris then?’ Chelsea asked in response, watching Jessica sip her drink with an eagle eye.

Bitch!

Time for some honesty. ‘I don’t think so, we can’t afford it.’

‘But she must, every other child in the class is going. You live in the best part of Clawden, surely you can spring for a couple of hundred pounds?’

‘I thought it was one hundred and nineteen?’

‘Plus food and spending money. After all, you can’t go to Paris and not indulge a little, can you? I’m going to get Sienna one of those cute little cards you can load up with Euros. She’ll just adore spending with it. They do so love to be grown up at eight, don’t they?’

The free coffee was beginning to develop a foul taste. ‘I’ve told you, Ronald works for a charity.’

Two large muffins appeared and the waitress carefully laid them out with napkins and tiny forks. Chelsea was quiet for a moment, then began to slowly cut the muffin into pieces. ‘You know, there are ways to make ends meet.’

‘Oh, something lucrative and easy, but there’s one thing I should tell you though, you’ll need to suspend your Miss Goody-Two-Shoes attitude if you want to work with us.’

Us?
Christ, she probably meant those evil clones of hers. That did it! Jessica wasn’t about to sell her soul to the BIBs for any money. It was probably a ploy to humiliate her in some way. ‘I might see what the job centre has to say first, but thanks so much for the offer.’ She stood. ‘And the muffin and coffee.’

Chelsea smiled her expensive white smile and chose to ignore the fact that Jessica’s muffin remained uneaten. ‘Well, I didn’t pay for them, but you’re welcome. Think about the job offer. And . . .’ she leaned over, showing off a pert, surgically-enhanced cleavage, ‘. . . if you need money for that Paris trip, I can help out. You can pay me back when you start earning . . .’ she smiled even more widely, ‘. . . either through our little business, or at Tesco, or wherever.’

The job centre woman was an enthusiastic but ultimately unhelpful woman named Mandy Loa. She cheerfully plied Jessica with Hobnobs and tea and then gave her the bad news. ‘Too many long-term unemployed out of work, love. Too few local jobs, especially part-time ones. Every mother in the area wants one of those. Like gold dust, they are.’

‘But surely there is something? Stacking shelves?’

‘You’re joking, right? Loads of mums and dads want those. You can fit stacking shelves in between school and the first job, you see.’

Who knew? Frowning, Jessica put her elbows on the desk so that she had the woman’s full attention. ‘So what exactly is available? You’ve got loads of little cards in the window, there’s got to be some sort of jobs on offer.’

‘Um, let’s see.’ Pressing a button on the keyboard in front of her, the woman scrolled through screen after screen. ‘Here’s one that’s been around for ages. Bouncer at a strip club?’ She looked questioningly at Jessica.

Did she actually expect an answer?

‘They do advise you know how to defend yourself from knife attack,’ she cautioned. ‘How would you feel about taking a self-defence course?’

Knife attacks? What was going on in Surrey when the lights went down? By the sounds of things, it became a pornographic warzone.

‘Sorry, I don’t think I could do a job that puts me in danger. I have two children who need me.’

The advisor rocked in her chair, and pushed the Hobnobs towards Jessica, encouraging her to eat. ‘Look, hon, perhaps you need to somehow work for yourself? Tutoring? Cleaning? That sort of thing?’

Cleaning? For people such as Chelsea Jordon and the other BIBs? Jessica felt nauseated at the thought.

‘I don’t have a recent degree or any teaching qualifications to be a tutor.’

‘Then make some flyers on your home computer and try cleaning. Amazing what you can earn by snaring a few good clients. Just be sure to fill in your tax return and declare the earnings. Don’t want to end up doing time, do you?’

Thanking Mandy for the attempt at help, Jessica picked herself up and headed for the door. A cleaner or working in a brothel – they were some neat options. She wasn’t too proud to do the former if it she could somehow manage to keep the ugly truth from the other mothers and her own children. Poor Rachel would flip if Jessica and Ronald shamed her even more. Sure, it was a good life lesson for children – showing them what it took to keep afloat – but try telling that to an eight year old who was bawling her eyes out.

Trying to stay positive, Jessica convinced herself that a job would turn up. Unfortunately, not in time to allow Rachel to go to Paris, but she’d just have to understand. She was far luckier than many other kids – the ones who didn’t live in Surrey – so it was time to focus on the good and push the bad to one side.

They were healthy, and they had each other.

That should be enough.

But as she pulled into a petrol station to put a measly two quid into the tank of the Fiat, Jessica knew that she didn’t believe the ‘we’ve got our health’ argument herself.

So how could she expect two young kids to buy into it?

JESSICA PUT THE IDEA of working out of her mind, but the universe, once again, decided to bite her in the bum. It was just after lunch and the dishwasher had broken down yet again, leaving her to drain the goopy water into a pot and wash all the pots and dishes from last night’s curry by hand. The phone rang and she raced for it, grabbing it just before it switched to answer mode.

Jessica clutched the phone.
No. A mother’s worst nightmare.

‘What’s happened?’ She managed to ask.

‘There’s been an accident at your daughter’s school. Now, please don’t panic, Rachel is stable, just some broken bones and a few nasty gashes.’

Oh God.
Jessica felt her breakfast moving north. ‘What kind of accident was it?’