The Shoplifting Mothers' Club (7 page)

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?

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.

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.

On paper.

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.’

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.

Now.

Taking off the garment, she remarked, ‘This one might be a bit small for my granddaughter – she’s quite tall, you know. You wouldn’t have a size 10 in this, would you, dear?’

The sales assistant, eager to make a commission, raced off, and Jessica took her chance, going up to the security guard with the two jackets. A variation on the theme Frieda had taught her, but suitable under the circumstances.

‘Excuse me. Could I possibly check these for colour outside, dear? My grandchildren are extremely fussy and I don’t want to have to bring them back.’

Theoretically, the colour of leather was hardly something you’d bother to ‘check’, but why else would she need to look at them under natural light? Jessica’s heart was pounding like a jack-hammer, but she forced herself to stay in character. Cool and calm, with the gravitas of the elderly.

The security guard told her to go ahead – he still had one eye on the bum of a gorgeous young girl. Taking on a shuffle, and mumbling to herself about colours, Jessica suddenly found herself outside the shop. Alone, except for about a thousand pounds worth of leather.

Now what?

Run. Run you fool!

It wasn’t too late to give up on this idea, she told herself, feet stubbornly rooted to the spot. Nothing had been stolen yet. There was still time to reject the deal with the devil and take the clothes back inside.

But what about that Visa bill?

Run. RUN!

And so she ran, shoving the jackets into the pale blue designer shopping bag as she went.

Ten seconds seemed like ten minutes, which was how long it took to get to the border of the next store. Sure that the security guard was hot on her heels, Jessica raced into the first place she came to. Not the café, as planned, but a large discount outlet place which, mercifully, had toilets to the rear. Unluckily, it also had those ubiquitous security barriers at the front door, which began sounding as soon as she walked in.

That store’s guard – a large woman with a mean expression and impressive girth – walked slowly towards her, and Jessica was conscious she remained in full view of the street. Moving to a rail of unattractive tank tops, she began flicking through them, waiting for someone to manhandle her into a small room and beat her to a pulp. The female guard approached, and Jessica closed her eyes.
She obviously knows.
This was the shortest criminal career in history, she decided. Should have chosen the lorry driving – at least that was legal. But after a moment, there were still no shouted questions; no heavy hands on her shoulders. Opening one eye, Jessica saw the woman confronting a group of kids by the rail just near her, all of whom were holding bags.

She thinks the alarm went off because of them.
Thank God. Forcing herself to act normally, and not look backwards at the street, Jessica wound her way through the packed racks until she reached the toilets. They were also alarmed.
Great.
Now what? She couldn’t very well take the tags off in full view of the everyone in the store, could she? Watching a toweringly tall guy walk out of the men’s toilet, she considering him lucky – a bag slung over
that
shoulder wouldn’t set off the alarm. Hang on? Maybe if she held it over her head? Pretend she was looking under it? Pretend she’d sat it in something nasty.

Brilliant.
Putting down her other bag, she held up the blue shopper, frowning as if it had been smeared with a foul substance. Pulling a face, and rubbing her hand on the expensive stolen suit, Jessica held the bag aloft as she walked through the barriers, concentrating on the non-existent mess on the bottom of it. Once through, she put it on the floor, got out a tissue, and carefully wiped the bottom of the bag, just in case someone was watching the cameras. Finally satisfied that the pretend mess was cleared up, Jessica walked into the toilet, where she proceeded to change back into herself. Taking the posh carry bag she’d brought with her, she tipped out the removal devices also stashed in there and quickly took off the security tags. Then she got changed and threw the Lady Muck suit, the wig, the blue shopper and all the other accoutrements of the thief, into the posh carrier. Finally, she took a comb out of her wallet, released her hair from the bun and gave it a good brush.

Transformed into a young, hip mum with flowery mini-skirt, tight white T-shirt and cute flip flops, Jessica flounced out of the toilet and made a point of heading to accessories, where she purchased an unaffordable tiny hairclip for Rachel, just to deflect attention.

Then, she walked out of the store, past Luxury Leather, where the young sales assistant was being illogically berated by the security guard for being so stupid, and back to the station. Walking in through the entrance, she immediately exited and headed for the car park once more.

It was done.

Taking gulping breaths of air, Jessica wondered how she’d actually managed it – her hands were shaking so dramatically that she could hardly place the car key in the lock.

Never mind all that.
She was two hundred quid richer, wasn’t she? That was the important thing.

Two hundred pounds less to pay off that Visa bill.