Mum’s mouth twitches at the corner. ‘Yeah, well. Some people have all the luck, eh?’
‘Would’ve been nice to have a twin,’ I say, hearing the acid in it.
She flinches, and I hate that I feel a flicker of guilt. ‘It was never that simple.’ Mum pauses, and then she launches into this monologue about how hard it was, how abandoned she felt by everyone, her twin with a new, better life, her parents, who she never knew, but found out later were both dead from overdoses, no one on her side except herself. I hear it as if from a distance, like I’m underwater. She says the other woman – my ‘Auntie’ Penni – was so desperate to have kids that she begged Mum to ‘consider her situation’. I almost feel sorry for Mum, except I know she’s leaving out all the bits where she made her own choices.
‘What about the money they gave you?’ I ask, because I remember that part, and I want to see her squirm.
She sighs, the sound full of ancient exhaustion. ‘There was a bit. Not a fortune, but enough for this place. Could’ve got morefor my money up north, but...’ She shrugs. ‘Even with the flat paid for, I was still skint. Still am.’ She emits the bleakest laugh I’ve ever heard.
‘I thought you rented this place.’ I suddenly realise I’ve never seen her fill out any paperwork for the flat, never seen a landlord’s letter.
She looks away, sheepish. ‘I didn’t want to have to explain how I got the money to buy it. So I let you believe I rented,’ she says, the words heavy as wet socks.
‘So you own it outright?’ I stare at her, genuinely gobsmacked.
Mum’s cheeks go pink. ‘It’s not The Ritz, love.’
‘But you make me pay rent.’ I fight the urge to laugh or cry, I can’t tell which.
‘I still have bills, Jade – water, leccy, gas, council tax, insurance... shall I go on? They don’t pay themselves.’
‘Fair enough.’ I raise my hands in surrender. ‘So, was it worth it? Losing a kid for a grotty flat?’
Her face freezes, and for a second I think she’s going to scream at me, or hit me, or dissolve into snotty tears. Instead, she just whispers, ‘God, Jade. You think I don’t regret it every day?’
I shrug. ‘I dunno. You never said. Why didn’t you tell Perfect Penni to piss off? You were just kids, and it was an accident. She had no right to ask you to give up a child.’
Mum’s lips twist. ‘I felt guilty. Course I did. I knew the tree thing was an accident, but that didn’t stop me feeling terrible about it. I ruined her chance to have a family. And there was me able to have two beautiful daughters.’ She takes a breath, and some old wound in her seems to close over. ‘You weren’t supposed to know,’ she says. ‘None of it. I tried to do my best for you.’
I roll my eyes. ‘By lying to me?’
She shakes her head. ‘By giving you a clean slate. A proper life. Less mess than I ever had.’
I want to argue, but what’s the point? She’s not strong enough to accept the truth of what she did, and I’m too tired to force it on her.
That night, at the pub, I pull pints like a robot and watch the regulars drift in, all of them oblivious to what’s boiling inside me. My head spins with possible futures, none of which seem plausible. I try to imagine meeting Bella – the real Bella, not the goddess-tier version I’ve built up in my head from her online presence – but it makes my stomach flip. She’ll be smarter, richer, prettier. I hate that I’m already rehearsing the way she’ll look down on me. I need to get my life together.
Maybe she’ll pity me, maybe she’ll ignore me altogether, and which would I prefer? Neither, if I’m honest. What could I do that might turn my life around? I don’t have a family that’ll gift me a business; I need to find a way to make something of myself on my own. I want her to envy me, just for a second, but I can’t think of a single thing she would want from my life. Aside from maybe – the thought comes unbidden – to meet her birth mother.Mymother. Or maybe she won’t. Maybe she’s perfectly happy as she is.
It’s quieter behind the bar now, the screens glowing with football scores, and I lose myself in the rhythm: pour, wipe, pour, wipe. Underneath it all, my mind starts running through options, a desperate little algorithm of self-improvement. I could go to college, but I don’t have the money for tuition, and besides, I was shit at school. Maybe I could get a grant, or one of those hardship funds, but they’d probably want to see some actual ‘promise’. I could join a gym, be a personal trainer – there are loads of them on Instagram, and they all seem to be mega-successful. I could reinvent myself asthe fitness twin, but considering my smoking habit, I’d probably die of emphysema before I made it to the taster session.
The idea of bettering myself freaks me out, but also... it kind of excites me. For the first time since I can remember, I actually want to achieve something. Not a lottery win or a scratchcard miracle, but something earned. It’s pathetic, but I cling to it – the fantasy of turning up at Bella’s fancy office, with a life, a version of myself she can’t ignore. It’s the most awake I’ve felt in months, maybe years.
I start jotting notes on a bar receipt, all the ways I could remake myself – night classes, online diplomas, fake it till I make it. Maybe I could get a job in property, work my way up from junior to top negotiator, or whatever they call themselves. I know I could do it. I’m smart. I’ve just been lazy. I could start calling myself Jade Newbury, just to see how it feels. I’m so lost in the daydream that I don’t even hear the bell for last orders.
Chapter Fourteen
Bella
I draw on a sweep of eyeliner with a proficient flick, and cap the pen, sitting back to admire my handiwork. For a fleeting second, the mirror reflects a version of me who looks together. Like the kind of woman who’s never had to google ‘how to negotiate a business overdraft’ at 2 a.m.
I pop my lips, admiring my favourite shade,Damson Ambition, and glance over the rest of myself – clear skin, hair wanded into careful waves, blouse uncreased – and permit myself a half-smile.
My bedside clock ticks at me as I stuff my feet into my boots, already mentally rerunning the coming conversation. Another day, another make-or-break meeting, only this time my audience is the bank. I’ve spent a week psyching myself up for this.
After my failed attempt to land an investor, today’s pitch is that I need to extend the business overdraft to bridge the gap until sales pick up, which sounds rational enough if you ignore the numbers. Staring out of the bedroom window, I force myself to believe this is fixable.
My secret weapon, if I can call it that, is Fritz Marsden. Of all the bank managers in the world, mine is a guy I half know. We overlapped at school – he was a couple of years ahead – but we really bondedduring a school ski trip to Chamonix. There was a night when four of us snuck out after curfew with the intention of buying weed from a lift operator, but after getting lost and arguing in the snow, we ended up with a bottle of glühwein, three chalet maids, two ski instructors, and a hangover that wiped out half a day’s skiing. Fritz, bless him, made up some lame excuse about us getting stuck in a ski lift, and basically saved us from getting put on report. I haven’t seen him for years, but he’s been fast-tracked and now manages the branch in town.
