‘And what about you? Are you just going to watch?’
‘I’m your lookout.’
The assistant at the pharmacy is discussing chesty coughs with a customer. I don’t think she’s going to miss this tube of Relief Body Moisturizer or this small jar of Crème de Corps Nutritif. In the basket go crispbreads. In my pocket goes Hydrating Face Cream. Tea bags for the basket. Signs of Silk Skin Treatment for me. It’s a bit like strawberry picking.
‘I’m good at this!’ I tell Zoey.
‘Great!’
She’s not even listening. Some lookout she is. She’s fiddling about at the pharmacy counter.
‘Chocolate aisle next,’ I tell her.
But she doesn’t answer, so I leave her to it.
It’s not exactly Belgium, but the confectionery section has miniature boxes of truffles tied with sweet little ribbons. They’re only £1.99, so I nick two boxes and shove them in my pocket. A biker’s jacket is very good for thieves. I wonder if Adam knows this.
At the end aisle, by the freezers, my pockets are bulging. I’m wondering how long Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food would last in a coat when two girls I used to go to school with walk by. They stop when they see me, bend their heads close together and whisper. I’m just about to text Zoey to let her know she needs to help me out when they come over.
‘Are you Tessa Scott?’ the blonde one says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you remember us? We’re Fiona and Beth.’ She makes it sound as if they only come in a pair. ‘You left in Year Eleven, didn’t you?’
‘Ten.’
They both look at me expectantly. Don’t they realize that they come from another planet – somewhere that spins much more slowly than mine – and that I have absolutely nothing to say to them?
‘How’s it going?’ Fiona says. Beth nods, as if she agrees entirely with this question. ‘Are you still having all that treatment?’
‘Not any more.’
‘So you’re better?’
‘No.’
I watch them understand. It starts in their eyes and spreads down their cheeks to their mouths. It’s all so predictable. They won’t ask any more questions, because there are no polite ones left. I want to give them permission to leave, but I don’t know how to.
‘I’m here with Zoey,’ I say, because the silence goes on for too long. ‘Zoey Walker. She was in the year above us.’
‘Really?’ Fiona nudges her friend. ‘That’s weird. She’s the one I was telling you about.’
Beth brightens at this, relieved that normal communication has resumed. ‘Is she helping you shop?’ She sounds as if she’s talking to a four-year-old.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Hey, look!’ Fiona says. ‘There she is. Do you know who I mean now?’
Beth nods. ‘Oh, her!’
I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t said anything. I’ve got a horrible feeling about this. But it’s too late now.
Zoey doesn’t look at all pleased to see them. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘Talking to Tessa.’
‘What about?’
‘This and that.’
Zoey looks at me suspiciously. ‘Are you ready to go?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Before you do’ – Fiona touches Zoey’s sleeve – ‘is it true you’ve been seeing Scott Redmond?’
Zoey hesitates. ‘What’s it to you? You know him?’
Fiona snorts, a soft noise with her nose. ‘Everyone knows him,’ and she rolls her eyes at Beth. ‘I mean everyone.’
Beth laughs. ‘Yeah, he went out with my sister for about half an hour.’
Zoey’s eyes glitter. ‘Is that right?’
‘Hey, listen,’ I say. ‘Fascinating as this is, we’ve got to go now. I have to collect the invites for my funeral.’
That shuts them up. Fiona looks astonished. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ I grab Zoey’s arm. ‘It’s a shame I can’t be there myself – I like parties. Text me if you think of any good hymns!’
We leave them looking completely bewildered. Me and Zoey go round the corner and stand in the kitchenware section, surrounded by cutlery and stainless steel.
‘They’re just idiots, Zoey. They don’t know anything.’
She feigns interest in a pair of sugar tongs. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Let’s do something wild to cheer ourselves up. Let’s do as many illegal things as we can in an hour!’
Zoey smiles reluctantly. ‘We could burn Scott’s house down.’
‘You shouldn’t believe what they say, Zoey.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you know him better than they do.’
I’ve never seen Zoey cry, not ever. Not when she got her GCSE results, not even when I told her my terminal diagnosis. I always thought she was incapable, like a Vulcan. But she’s crying now. In the supermarket. She’s trying to hide it, swinging her hair to cover her face.
‘What? What is it?’
‘I have to go and find him,’ she says.
‘Now?’
‘I’m sorry.’
It feels very cold watching her cry, like how could she like Scott so much? She’s only known him a few weeks.
‘We haven’t finished breaking the law yet.’
She nods; tears slip down her face. ‘Just dump the basket and walk out when you’re done. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I have to go.’
I’ve been here before with exactly this view. Her retreating back, her hair swinging gold as she gets further and further away from me.
Maybe I’ll burn her house down instead.
It’s no fun without her though, so I put the basket down in a ‘I can’t believe I forgot my purse’ kind of way and stand scratching my head for a moment, before walking towards the doors. But just before I get there I’m grabbed by the wrist.
I thought Zoey said store detectives would be easy to spot. I thought they’d be dressed badly in a suit and tie, that they wouldn’t wear a coat because they’re inside all day.
This man’s wearing a denim jacket and has close-cropped hair. He says, ‘Are you going to pay for the items inside your jacket?’ He says, ‘I have reason to believe you have concealed items from aisles five and seven about your person. This was witnessed by a member of our staff.’
I take the nail varnish from my pocket and hold it out to him. ‘You can have it back.’
‘You need to come with me now.’
Heat spreads from my neck to my face to my eyes. ‘I don’t want it.’
‘You intended to leave the store without paying,’ he says, and he pulls me by the arm.
We walk down an aisle towards the back of the shop. Everyone can see me and their gaze burns. I’m not sure he’s allowed to pull me like this. He might not be a store detective at alclass="underline" he could be trying to get me somewhere lonely and quiet. I dig my heels in and grab hold of a shelf. It’s difficult to breathe.
He hesitates. ‘Are you OK? Do you have asthma or something?’
I shut my eyes. ‘No, I’m… I don’t want…’
I can’t finish. Too many words falling off my tongue.
He frowns at me, gets out his pager and asks for assistance. Two little kids sitting in a trolley stare at me as they’re wheeled past. A girl my age saunters by, saunters back again smirking.
The woman who scurries up is wearing a name badge. Her name’s Shirley and she frowns at me. ‘I’ll take it from here,’ she says to the man and waves him away. ‘Come on.’
Behind the fish counter is a secret office. You wouldn’t know it was there if you were ordinary. Shirley shuts the door behind us. It’s the kind of room you get in police dramas on TV – small and airless, with a table and two chairs, lit by a fluorescent strip that flickers from the ceiling.
‘Sit down,’ Shirley says. ‘Empty your pockets.’
I do as she tells me. The things I stole look shabby and cheap on the table between us.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’d call that evidence, wouldn’t you?’
I try crying, but she doesn’t fall for it. She passes me a tissue, though she can barely be bothered. She waits for me to blow my nose and points out the bin when I’ve finished.