Cupcakes at Carrington’s (Carringtons Department Store 1) (12 page)

‘Ha ha,’ I say, pulling a fake smile face and slinging my bag back over my shoulder before jumping inside the lift and pulling the cage door closed.

I arrive just in time to see an ominous black Maybach with privacy windows glide to a standstill right in front of the main entrance. I dive behind the huge Clarins display board and buy myself a few seconds to call James. After what feels like an eternity, he eventually answers.

‘Just go without me,’ he snaps uncharacteristically, after I tell him about Malikov’s impromptu lunch request. ‘You can manage that, can’t you?’ His voice sounds brittle, and I can hear a woman yelling in the background.

‘Of course …’ I mutter, feeling taken aback. ‘I just wanted to check as we don’t normally go out for lunch with customers. I’d hate to jeopardise anyth—’

‘Just don’t upset him then, and you won’t.’

‘James, is everything OK?’ I ask, a lump suddenly forming in my throat.

‘Never better … look, I can’t talk now. Do whatever you need to.’ And the line goes dead. I stare at the phone in disbelief, wondering what’s got into him, before slotting it back into my bag. But I can’t think about it now, not with Malikov waiting.

A henchman in a black leather coat hauls himself out and pulls open the passenger door as I walk towards the car.

‘Mr Malikov, he want you for a lunch,’ the henchman says slowly in a heavy Russian accent, as if struggling to pick the right words. My nervousness makes me want to giggle, but I stifle the urge.

Sliding into the car, I pop my bag down on the floor and find that I’m sitting right next to Malikov; the armrest has been folded back and he’s sitting just off centre. He’s wearing a ridiculous-looking speckled grey fur hat with a pinstripe suit, complete with waistcoat, the buttons of which are straining around his bulging midriff. There’s another henchman sitting in the front passenger seat with a tattoo on the side of his neck and a transparent curly plastic lead hanging from his ear. A bodyguard! Oh my God.

Malikov slowly turns to look at me before treating me to a smile that conjures up an image of Little Red Riding Hood’s wolf.

‘Mr Malikov …’ I start. He tilts his head.

‘My dear, what a short memory you have …’

I swallow, before taking a deep breath.

‘Sorry. Kon,’ I quickly remember, feeling uneasy at such familiarity in the intimate surroundings of his car. ‘Please accept my apologies. James can’t join us today, he’s … been held up with another customer,’ I say, managing to sound convincing.

‘Ha!’ He waves a dismissive hand. ‘This is better.’ He laughs, letting his gaze linger uncomfortably long. My heart feels as if it might jump right out of my chest. The car pulls away and I sit back in an attempt to relax, when the seat suddenly starts vibrating. The shock makes me gasp.

‘You like it? It’s for massage,’ Malikov booms, looking very pleased with himself.

‘It’s unusual,’ I manage, instantly knowing better than to disagree with him as I reach up for the grab handle in a desperate attempt to try and control my jigging body. ‘How can I help you today?’ I ask, the vibration from the seat making my voice sound all wobbly and ridiculous.

He waves a dismissive hand. ‘I want to give you this.’ He taps his cane on the back of the seat to alert the bodyguard who, after glancing in the rear-view mirror, takes a black velvet box from the glove compartment and hands it back to Malikov. ‘A small gift for you.’ Malikov pushes the box towards me.

‘Oh, Kon. That’s very generous of you but really there’s no need,’ I say, immediately holding my hands up to emphasise the fact that I can’t accept it.

‘My wife and daughter were very pleased with the matching purses. You’re a clever girl.’ He goes to hand me the box again and I hesitate. ‘I shall be offended if you don’t take it.’ His eyes narrow. I swallow, remembering the Chiavaccis and James’s instruction not to upset him.

‘It’s not that I don’t want to … it’s just that I’m not really allowed to accept gifts from customers.’ The massage action ends abruptly, making the word
customer
jump up a few octaves. Instantly, my cheeks flush. I quickly try to regain some composure. ‘I’m sure you understand.’ He studies me. ‘Only it’s not appropriate for me to do so, and in any case I didn’t really do anything,’ I tell him, making sure I don’t imply his behaviour is in any way inappropriate.

‘Nonsense, you must take it. It’s just a trinket and I always reward my …
laydeeez
,’ he says, dropping his eyelids as a sleazy smile forms across his hard face. ‘But there is one condition,’ he adds, covertly. ‘It must be our secret.’ His eyes snap open wide now. ‘If you tell anyone I shall deny it, my wife insists on discretion. So you must tell nobody, most of all the tax man.’ He sniggers at his own joke in an attempt to mask the threat in his voice, and then lets his leg fall against mine. I can’t believe his wife condones this revolting reward system.

‘Of course, but I’m sorry. Really, I can’t,’ I say, trying to sound more insistent. Silence follows.

‘But I’m not just any old customer. I like to think of us as …
friends
,’ he says, gesturing magnanimously with both hands and allowing the words to linger suggestively as I try and ignore the pounding sound of my own heartbeat. He’s ancient. Must be at least fifty. And it was all over Google about his legion of girlfriends. I remember what Eddie said about the waterbed and feel relieved I can’t take the present, not even bearing to think what sexual favours he might expect in return.

‘And we are.’ He glares at me.

‘I would if I could,’ I quickly add. And then, to my surprise, he totally changes tack.

‘You have class.’ Malikov shakes his head vigorously as I subtly pick at the fluff that flies from his hat onto my face. ‘Silly me, you cannot accept trinkets from a man you barely know. I should have realised that.’ He pats my knee, sending a shock of revulsion to circuit through me, and then slips the box into his pocket. I take a deep breath and smile broadly to cover the big sigh of relief that follows.

The car takes a sharp corner just as his phone rings so I grab the opportunity to put a smidgen of distance between us and surreptitiously slide myself towards the door. I glance out of the window, trying to work out where we are, but I don’t recognise the back street we’re crawling through.

‘Lunch is cancelled,’ Malikov announces after stabbing his phone to end the call. He taps the back of the driver’s seat. ‘Back to Carrington’s and then take me to my lawyer’s. We must finalise the details of the super-injunction,’ he orders, emphasising the words ‘super-injunction’ and sounding very showy and impressed with himself. He turns to me. ‘I’m sorry my dear, but this is the price of success. Everyone at the top has one these days.’ He rolls his eyes, pretending to be put out by the trappings of his perceived status. ‘Another time perhaps?’ and he takes my hand and plants a bristly kiss across my knuckles. I resist the urge to throw up in his lap, thinking that’ll teach me to squeeze my cleavage at dodgy old pervs.

‘Oh, what a shame. Well, please let us know if we can help with anything else,’ I venture, feeling relieved that I won’t have to endure lunch now but disappointed that I’ve not had the chance to talk to him about the Chiavaccis.

‘Actually there is something else …’ His voice trails off. He looks away.

‘Yes?’ I reply, eagerly, pushing my personal feelings about him to one side. He turns back and studies me for a moment.

‘It’s an associate of mine … but he doesn’t speak English so I will act on his behalf,’ he says as a statement.

‘Oh, OK. Do you know what he would like to buy?’ I hold my breath, hoping he wants a designer bag or three, or a nice set of luggage perhaps. A big sale to impress Maxine would be fantastic.

‘Gifts for his family in Moscow. He has seven sisters. Each with a penchant for quality goods.’ Malikov locks his eyes onto mine. Silence follows. ‘Chanel bags!’ he exclaims suddenly. ‘The most expensive ones.’ His eyes light up and my heart sinks. We don’t stock Chanel.

‘Yes the Chanel bags are very stylish, but I wonder if your friend has considered the Bottega range? I have eight of the Venetas,’ I say, knowing they’re still nestling in the stock cupboard. Way too pricey for our normal customers, and who can afford to pay thousands for a bag in any case?

‘Do they cost more?’

‘Oh yes, they’re
very
expensive, everyone wants one, but I’d be happy to reserve seven of them for your associate,’ I say, hoping to appeal to his sense of entitlement.

‘Let him have six,’ he smiles nastily, and I immediately feel sorry for the sister who will miss out. ‘I want the other two … for my wife and daughter.’

‘Wonderful,’ I say, forcing a smile.

‘And you will ship them? For the sisters.’

‘Yes, yes of course,’ I nod eagerly. This will get my section off to a good start with Maxine, and I can’t wait to tell James – hopefully his half of the sales commission will cheer him up. I know we’re in competition now, but Malikov was his customer originally so it’s only fair to share. ‘And I believe you were interested in the limited edition Chiavacci bags,’ I say, tentatively, steadying my voice from showing too much excitement as the car pulls up opposite Carrington’s.

‘Perhaps, but the boss would need to be here. Goodbye,’ he says, adjusting his hat. I shake his hand before stepping out of the car, and then realise that I’ve forgotten my bag. I quickly spin around to see it dangling on the end of his extended right index finger. As I lean back inside the car to retrieve it, Malikov’s eyes dart down towards my cleavage and he treats me to another leer.

I’m busy tweeting about my encounter with Malikov when I glance up to see Maxine push through the revolving doors at the front of the store. For some reason, I hesitate and hold back. And I’m glad I have because, as Maxine walks around to the side exit, James emerges from the loading bay.

I duck into a tiny alcove next to the betting shop, just in time to see them chatting. I swear James is laughing. Although it’s tricky to be sure, as Maxine is standing right in front of him, but still, he’s not snapping at her like he did with me just an hour or so ago. Maxine is rubbing his arm now and they look very cosy indeed. And oh my God, she’s hugging him. Her lips are pressed to his ear as if she’s whispering something illicit! Bound to be. My stomach lurches. I feel like an utter fool. I take a deep breath and turn away to study the odds for the upcoming football matches. When I turn back around to walk over to Carrington’s, James has gone and Maxine is sashaying towards me, her hair fanning all around her like the Greek goddess, Venus, or whatever. In my peripheral vision I spot a group of suits from a nearby estate agent’s office nudging each other as they gape in her direction. One of them winks and another shouts ‘oi oi’, but Maxine is oblivious; she has a cigarette in one hand and her mobile in the other, and it’s pressed to her ear.

‘Who was that?’ she asks, pulling the phone away and clutching it to her chest. She traces a question mark in the air with her cigarette.

‘Mr Malikov, he’s a customer,’ I tell her.

‘Nice car,’ she says, drawing in another lungful. She exhales through her nose and shakes her hair around for a bit. ‘Why doesn’t he come inside like everyone else?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well, in future you need to let me know about every private customer and their personal shopping visits … preferably conducted within the personal shopping suite.’

‘OK, if you’re sure – it’s not something we normally do.’ My heart sinks at the prospect of being tracked like a Saturday girl on her first job.

‘I’m in charge now and I want things done properly. What if something had happened to you? Then where would we be?’ she says, flashing her pageant smile.

‘Quite. Point taken. I’ll be sure to tell you in future,’ I reply.

I push through the revolving doors and make my way to the staff lift. As the lift staggers through the floors I open my bag. And I don’t believe it. There, perched on top of my purse, is Malikov’s suede box. Oh my God, he must have slipped it in when I was getting out of the car. He sure as hell doesn’t take no for an answer.

On leaving the lift I make my way straight into the loo, and after checking the coast is clear I pull the box from my bag. As I push open the lid I let out an involuntary gasp that’s quickly followed by a hushed, ‘Wow.’ It’s a ruby necklace and it’s absolutely exquisite. I glance at the door before carefully lifting it from the box and holding it up to my neck.

As I lean across the sink to get a better look in the mirror, the gems glisten in the light. It’s irresistible, so I quickly fasten it around my neck, admiring the way the rubies skim my collarbone. I allow myself a moment of fantasy, imagining that I’m a Russian princess and that this necklace is just one of many pieces in my vast collection, when the door bursts open.

I dash into the nearest cubicle and hurriedly take the necklace off, placing it carefully back into the box before stowing it back into my handbag.

£
7,786.91. OH MY ACTUAL GOD. The saliva drains from my mouth. It’s Monday morning. My day off. Wintry fresh sun is streaming through the slats of the white Venetian blind at my bedroom window and I’ve just finished tallying up my debts. I scan the spreadsheet again, desperately searching for an error. Surely it can’t be right. I highlight the amounts and press the Autosum button again, just in case, but it’s no use. The amount doesn’t change. Everything is there, even a store card I used to pay for the dress I wore to Sam’s birthday do, and the balance is now almost double what the dress cost in the first place. Another wave of nausea charges through me followed by a cold shiver of sweat. I reach over to the thick envelope containing the copy of my credit file. My hand is shaking but there’s no way out, I have to face it.

‘Bloody hell, what’s this?’ Sam yells, from the lounge.

‘What’s what?’ I yell back, my eyes scanning the report.

‘This necklace here on the coffee table. It’s divine.’