Needing The Dough

CW: Mature themes and strong language.

I could not really believe my luck. Here I was, on the run, and I found this nerdy guy with a bank account. Nice too. He did not even mention my accent. Most do. They say things like, “I love a Northern accent,” as if it is a party trick. Southern pricks cannot tell the difference between Leeds and Liverpool. Really. They talk like the BBC invented English and they own it.

Rob seemed kind. He had given me two hundred and fifty pounds like it was pocket fluff. Either he wanted my bones far too much or he was absolutely minted. Honestly, either option worked. Those abs were firm enough to grate parmesan on, and he was surprisingly well built for an IT nerd who probably spent his evenings debugging code and forgetting to eat.

I was teasing him, flirting, subtle one minute and full on obvious the next, but he was not biting. He could have been shy or gay, but his eyes kept undressing me. Men are terrible at hiding a hard on. They think they are discreet, but trousers do not lie.

Still, he did not make a move. Not one. He just handed me the cash and said, “Get yourself something nice.” Something nice. Like I was a charity case or a girlfriend or a stray cat he had decided to feed.

And maybe I was all three.

I did not ask questions. I could not. When you are on the run, you do not poke at good fortune in case it evaporates. You take the money, you smile, you act like you belong. You keep your head down and your accent up. “Innit” slips out sometimes. Muscle memory from a childhood where you said it or you got your head kicked in. I learned early that accents are costumes. Voices are weapons. And right now, mine was a scalpel.

The town had that polished, curated look you only get when old money has been sanded down and repainted for new money to admire. Georgian brickwork scrubbed clean. Window boxes arranged like magazine spreads. Even the cobbles looked rehearsed. A place that pretended to be timeless while charging twelve pounds for a loaf of bread.

I hit the high street with two hundred and fifty pounds burning a hole in my pocket and the cold December air biting at my cheeks. I needed a distraction, a thrill, a way to feel like I was still steering my own life instead of clinging to the bumper of someone else’s.

That was when I saw it. La Petite Épicerie. A posh little deli wedged between a florist and a candle shop. Warm lights. Marble counters. A single assistant inside, all bun and posture and posh vowels. The kind of place where a jar of olives cost more than a week’s groceries anywhere else.

Perfect.

The moment I stepped inside, the smell hit me. Warm sourdough. Truffle oil. Smoked paprika. Cured meats hanging like edible chandeliers. A soft hum from the fridge. The clink of glass jars. The faint sweetness of figs. A cathedral of food for people who pretended they cooked but mostly ordered Ottolenghi.

Behind the counter stood Tamsin. Of course her name was Tamsin.

She had the posture of someone raised to believe she was better than everyone else. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. Hands folded neatly at her apron. But the moment she clocked me, or rather the version of me I was about to become, her whole body softened. A slight tilt of the head. A deferential half step forward. Eyes widening just enough to say she recognised money as a language.

I set my phone to ring and lifted it to my ear.

“Victoria Pennington,” I said crisply, nose tilted, vowels stretched like elastic. “Yes, darling, Monaco next week. What time will the car arrive. Splendid.”

Tamsin straightened like a meerkat spotting a drone.

“And I dropped the children at Hampton this morning and realised I had lunch with the Minister. And here I am in rags. Utterly humiliating.”

I laughed lightly, the kind of laugh that says I own a boat and three Labradors.

Tamsin pretended to rearrange a stack of imported anchovies but she was drinking in every syllable.

I lowered the phone just enough.

“Sweetheart, do you manage this place. The décor is divine. Very provincial chic. Very French.”

Her cheeks flushed. She dipped her head, a tiny bow, and stepped closer.

“Well, I assist the owner,” she said, smoothing her apron. “But I curate the displays.”

“Exquisite,” I said, letting admiration drip like honey. “I am hosting a dinner and need ingredients for a very specific recipe. Terribly exclusive. You probably know it. Poulet a la Creme de Minuit.”

Her eyes widened. Of course she did not know it. I had made it up.

“It requires very particular ingredients,” I continued. “Rare ones. Hard to source.”

She nodded eagerly, already stepping out from behind the counter. Her body language had shifted entirely. Shoulders rounded. Hands clasped. Chin dipped. Deference made flesh.

I pulled out a folded sheet of paper, handwritten in looping script. A prop. A distraction. A masterpiece.

“Now, darling. The recipe.”

She leaned in, breath held.

One jar of white truffle paste. Aged saffron threads from Abruzzo. Smoked sea salt harvested at dawn. Duck fat infused with black garlic. A single preserved lemon, preferably Sicilian. Wildflower honey from a mountain apiary.

She gasped softly at each item, like I was reciting scripture.

“Oh, we do have a limited edition truffle paste,” she whispered. “It is in the cold store. I will fetch it.”

She hurried off, posture perfect, steps quick but controlled. The kind of walk you learn in ballet or private school.

The moment she disappeared, I moved.

Not rushed. Never rushed. Just purposeful.

A tin of truffle pate slid into my tote. Then a packet of Iberico ham. A small jar of saffron. A wedge of parmesan wrapped in wax paper. A tiny bottle of balsamic aged so long it probably remembered the Renaissance.

The bell over the door tinkled and I froze. A man stepped in, Barbour jacket, the sort who buys truffle oil because he thinks it says something about him. I shifted my body to block the view of my bag. He glanced at me, then at the cheeses, then wandered off. Tamsin did not even look up. I had her entirely, but my pulse had jumped. A reminder that even perfect plans have edges.

I lifted the honey. Rob would like this. He had that quiet sweet tooth, the kind that softened him. I pictured him tasting it, surprised I had chosen something so delicate. Maybe he would see I could bring something to his life, not just take.

Tamsin returned, cheeks flushed from the cold store, holding a tiny jar like it was a newborn.

“This is our most exclusive truffle paste,” she whispered. “It is sixty eight ninety five.”

I widened my eyes. “Darling, that is practically charity.”

She beamed.

“And for the duck fat,” she said, “we have a black garlic infusion, but it is in the back fridge. I will just get it.”

Off she went again.

The truffle paste slid into my bag. He would never buy something like that for himself. Too careful. Too modest. I could give him something he did not know he wanted. A little luxury. A little danger.

I slipped a jar of fig chutney into my bag. Then a bar of dark chocolate studded with pistachios. A lady must indulge from the inside.

I wondered what Rob would think if he saw me like this. Victoria Pennington. A woman who could walk into any room and bend it to her will. Maybe he would finally see me as someone worth choosing, not just someone he rescued.

When Tamsin returned, breathless, she placed the jar reverently on the counter.

“I will take everything,” I said. “Wrap it all. I will send someone across shortly.”

“Oh, of course, madam,” she said, glowing.

I patted my pockets. “Oh dear. My phone. I must have left it by the honey display. Would you mind.”

She darted off.

I added a small tin of smoked paprika. A sliver of Manchego. A tiny pot of lavender honey.

I hated how good it felt. The control. The performance. The lie. It slid over me like silk, too familiar, too easy. It made me feel like myself again, which was the saddest truth of all. Some people find themselves in love or faith or family. I found myself in the quiet thrill of getting away with it.

Tamsin returned, phone in hand, smiling like she had just been knighted.

I swept out of the deli, all privilege and perfume, my tote clinking with stolen decadence.

Outside, the cold air hit me, sharp and clean. I walked down the cobbles with two hundred pounds still in my pocket, a bag full of stolen decadence, and a grin I could not swallow. On the run, yes. But winning felt good. Winning meant survival.