LITMIR.BIZ

      It had started with confusion at the supermarket checkout.

      ‘Do you have another card?’ the checkout operator had asked.

      ‘Pardon me?’ April had said—because, well, it had never happened to her before.

      It had, it seemed, happened several times to the not particularly patient operator—Bridget, according to her name tag. She’d studied April, her gaze flat, as April had tried what she knew to be her correct PIN twice more.

      And then, as April had searched hopelessly for an alternative card—she’d cut up every single card linked to the Molyneux Trust back in Perth—Bridget had asked her to move aside so she could serve the next in a long line of customers.

      April had dithered momentarily: was she supposed to return the Thai green curry ready-meal, the bunch of bananas and bottle of eye make-up remover to the shelves before she left?

      But then the weight of pitying stares—possibly only imagined—had kicked in, and April had exited the shop as fast as she’d been able, her sneakers suddenly unbelievably squeaky on the supermarket’s vinyl flooring.

      Now she was at home, still in her gym gear, on her butter-soft grey leather couch, her laptop before her.

      For only the second time in the four weeks since she’d been in London she logged in to her internet banking—the other time being when she’d set up her account at the bank. Her fully furnished flat didn’t come with a printer, so she’d have to scroll through her credit card statement onscreen.

      But it was still easy to see the reason for her mortification at the checkout—she’d maxed out her credit card.

      How was that even possible?

      She’d been so careful with her spending—more so as each still jobless week had passed.

      She hadn’t bought any new clothes for weeks. She’d stopped eating at cafés and restaurants, and had instead become quite enamoured with what she considered a very English thing: convenience stores with huge walls of pre-made sandwiches in triangular plastic packaging. And microwaveable ready-meals for dinner.

      They must only be costing a few pounds a meal, surely?

      She had joined the gym, but that had seemed very cheap. And fortunately the flat came with Wi-Fi, so she hadn’t had to pay for that.

      So where had all her money gone?

      Five minutes later she knew.

      With pen and paper, she’d documented exactly where her money had been spent.

      Her rent—and four weeks’ deposit—was the biggest culprit. Only now did it dawn on her that even if she did get one of the many, many jobs she’d been applying for, her starting salary would barely cover her rent. With absolutely nothing left over for sandwiches in plastic triangles.

      She flopped back onto her couch and looked around her flat.

      It was small, but—if she was objective—not that small. And it was beautifully furnished. Expensively furnished. Her kitchen appliances were the same insanely priced brand she’d had back in Perth. Her small bathroom was tiled in floor-to-ceiling marble.

      She even had a balcony.

      But she couldn’t afford a balcony. She couldn’t afford any of this.

      Because she didn’t have any money. At all.

      Not for the first time in four weeks, she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake.

      The first time had been after she hadn’t got the first job she’d been interviewed for.

      Now, several job interviews later—and many more applications that had led to absolutely nothing—her initial optimism astounded her. She literally had a degree, an internship and then almost ten years of nothing.

      Well—not nothing. But nothing she was about to put on her CV. A million followers and a charitable foundation that she’d established herself could possibly sound impressive to some HR departments. But they weren’t relevant to the environmental officer roles she was applying for.

      And, just as importantly, they would reveal her real name. And she just couldn’t do that.

      Although it was tempting at times. Like tonight. How easy it would be to still be April Molyneux and organise the reissue of one of the many credit cards linked to her insane fortune? By this time tomorrow she could be eating all the Thai green curry she wanted.

      She could even upgrade to a far more impressive flat.

      April pushed herself up and off the couch, to search for something to eat in her lovely kitchen.

      Her fridge was stocked only with expensive Australian Riesling, sparkling designer water—also expensive—a partially eaten wheel of camembert cheese—expensive—and the organic un-homogenised milk that she’d bought because she’d liked the pretty glass bottle it came in—probably also more expensive than it needed to be.

      April felt sick.

      Was she really so disconnected from the reality of what things cost?

      Her whole life she’d known she was rich. But she’d thought she still had some sense of the reality of living in the real world: without a trust fund, without the mansion your mum had bought for you.

      She’d liked to think she’d projected some sort of ‘everywoman’ persona to her Instagram and Facebook followers. That despite the good fortune of her birth that she was really just like everybody else.

      She poured herself a bowl of probably overpriced granola and used up the rest of her fancy milk, then sat back in front of her laptop.

      Earlier today, before heading to the gym, she’d scheduled the next couple of days’ worth of social media posts.

      April Spencer might be in London, but April Molyneux—to her followers, anyway—was still in Perth, effortlessly adjusting to her new single life.

      Before she’d dyed her hair she’d made sure she’d honoured every single product placement agreement she’d signed, and had posed for months’ worth of photos. She’d taken even more selfies, with all manner of random backgrounds—she’d come up with something to caption them with as she needed to.

      Plus she still took random photos while here in London—the habit was too ingrained for her to give it up completely. She just made sure her hair and anything identifiably London wasn’t in any of the photos. So the book she was reading...the shade she’d painted her toenails...that kind of stuff. All was still documented, still shared, interwoven with her blonde April photos and carefully coordinated with her assistant back home—thankfully still paid for by the Molyneux Foundation.

      So her social media life carried on. Her followers continued to grow.

      And what were they seeing?

      She scrolled down the page, taking in her last few years of photos in a colourful blur.

      A blur of international holidays, secluded luxury Outback retreats, designer shoes, amazing jewellery, beautiful clothes, a gorgeous husband and attractive—wealthy—friends.

      They were seeing an unbelievably privileged woman who had absolutely no idea what it was like to exist in the real world.

      April slapped her laptop screen shut, suddenly disgusted with herself.

      And ashamed.

      The whole point of all this—the move to London, her quest for a job, living

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