The Perfect Present

by Karen Swan

  She nodded, knowingly. Obviously he wanted it in time for Christmas. Obviously he was married.

  ‘Is there enough time? Are you busy?’ he asked.

  ‘Rushed off my feet. Everyone wants their pieces for Christmas,’ she said, scribbling his name in her notebook.

  ‘Is that because of the article in the FT?’

  ‘Yes. Did you see it too?’

  ‘It’s how I found you.’

  ‘You and thirty others,’ she murmured, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’ She looked up to find him staring at her intently, and knew he was finding her odd. From the cut of his suit, she guessed the women in his life wore jeans in child sizes with crystals on. ‘What were you thinking for your wife?’ she asked.

  ‘I want a charm necklace for her. With seven charms.’

  His certainty was surprising. Most clients didn’t have a clue what they wanted. ‘That’s specific. Why seven?’

  ‘That’s just how many I want,’ he replied, shrugging.

  ‘I see,’ she said, getting up and lying the notebook on the coffee table. ‘Well, I’ve got a selection of some charms I can show you now, just to give you an idea of what kinds of things I can do.’ She reached into what looked like a filing cabinet, pulled out a shallow drawer and brought it over, setting it down on the table in front of him. Some miniature charms were lined up in a neat display in military rows upon red velvet. ‘And of course, if you’ve got anything specific in mind that you don’t see here, I can make it to order.’

  She sat down again, waiting for his response to the little treasures – her collection was small but refined – but he didn’t even look at them.

  ‘The entire necklace must be bespoke,’ he said.

  Laura sat back. ‘Ah, well now, that will be significantly more difficult to arrange in time for Christmas, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s four weeks away,’ he countered, sitting up straighter.

  ‘Yes. But as I said, I am incredibly busy at the moment.’

  ‘Can’t you delegate?’

  ‘It’s just me,’ she replied, her politeness stretching to gossamer-thinness.

  He looked out through the east window opposite him for a few moments and she could tell by the set of his jaw that he was irritated.

  ‘Okay. Let me explain fully what it is that I’m looking for here,’ he said, leaning forward so that his elbows were on his knees, his hands clasped together. He looked like a president come to read to schoolchildren. ‘My wife’s birthday is on the twenty-third. She hates that her birthday is on the twenty-third. Every year we throw a big party for her birthday, and every year we open the door to people saying, “Merry Christmas”. It puts a lot of pressure on me to come up with something really special that makes her birthday stand apart from Christmas. Are you with me?’

  Laura sat back and frowned at him. She most certainly was not. Gorgeous he may be, but his patronizing tone was pushing all her buttons.

  ‘When I read that article on you, about your charm jewellery, it gave me the idea for the perfect present for her – a charm necklace, but with a difference. I don’t just want it to be decorative, or to signify last year’s holiday. I want every charm on this necklace to represent her relationship with each of the most significant people in her life. That’s why there are seven. And that’s why I can’t just . . . choose one off a tray. They have to be unique to her.’

  Laura nodded, intrigued. ‘It’s a great idea. It goes a lot further than most of the jewellery I’m asked to create. Most of the time, people want charms for notable life events such as christenings, twenty-firsts, wedding anniversaries and suchlike. I’ve never been asked to . . . well, tell a life story before. It would be an exciting project for me professionally, and I can guarantee your wife would finish up with something incredibly special. But that’s a very labour-intensive commission. If you’d be happy to wait till after Christmas . . .’

  ‘No. Categorically not.’

  ‘Well then, let’s see – if you’d consider dropping the number to, say, three or four charms, there might be enough ti—’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly, interrupting her again.

  Laura sat back, irritated and offended. He wasn’t even trying not to be rude. ‘Well then, I’m afraid we’re at an impasse, Mr Blake. There simply isn’t enough time for me to interview your wife for that many charms.’

  ‘You can’t interview her anyway,’ he said briskly. ‘It’s a surprise. It’s absolutely imperative that she knows nothing about it.’

  Laura pursed her lips grimly. The project – ambitious though it might be – was fast losing its appeal. He might be easy on the eye, but she did not fancy several hours in his company, listening to stories about his no doubt twenty-two-year-old wife.

  A BlackBerry buzzed quietly in his suit pocket and he took it out.

  Laura watched him with building anger as he frowned at the message on the screen before pocketing it again. His behaviour since arriving here had been bullish and arrogant. ‘There won’t be anything for her to find out about,’ she said, shutting the notebook to signify that the meeting was over. ‘Not from me, anyway. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have to be realistic about my delivery times and my commitments to my existing clients.’

  ‘Are you saying . . . ?’

  ‘I’m saying it might be your wife’s birthday, but it is also Christmas for everybody else. If you cannot wait or compromise, then I can’t help you.’

  They stared at each other, horns locked, and Laura felt the red mist descend. She didn’t fool herself for one second that she was Miss Congeniality. She knew perfectly well how tricky she was. But even she was more capable of compromise and basic manners than him.

  Robert Blake stared at her for a moment, his anger seemingly matching hers, then walked away – but not towards the door. He went to the window, taking in the view. Laura’s own eyes were drawn to the horizon beyond him, and she could see, further out in the estuary, the newly exposed mud-banks drying out in the sun. In another four hours it would be slack water, and then the tide would start its silent creep back, rustling the reeds and smothering the mud that always sucked at it so greedily.

  He noticed the shoes beside him and picked one of them up. It still had the tissue and toe-shaper in it.

  ‘For your daughter?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t have a daughter,’ she replied briskly.

  ‘Boy?’

  ‘What? No,’ she snapped, flummoxed by these forays into personal chit-chat. She watched him replace the shoe carefully.

  He jammed his hands casually in his pockets and wandered back towards her. ‘We’ve got off on the wrong foot,’ he said with no apparent trace of irony. ‘Perhaps I should have stated earlier that I’m paying double your fee.’

  ‘Double my fee?’ she echoed.

  ‘That’s right,’ he replied, and she saw victory creep into his eyes, the unassailable conviction that this would seal the deal. Christmas would belong to his wife alone after all. He was a businessman used to winning. No doubt the car parked on the quay with the perfectly correct satnav was a Volante or Carrera; no doubt he had a mistress who was already jockeying to be his second wife; and no doubt the fact that he was here for his wife’s present and not trawling Bond Street meant he’d already bought her the W1 trophies of the Cartier Tank watch, the Asprey tennis bracelet, the Theo Fennell diamond key and the Tiffany eternity ring.

  Laura stretched herself an inch taller. ‘It’s not a matter of price,’ she said with impressive firmness, revelling in her own small victory. He had picked the wrong person to lord it over. As far as she was concerned, this was a matter of wills now, and when push came to shove, she chose which commissions she took. She was going to win this. ‘I have other clients. I can’t let them down.’

  ‘You don’t need to. I arranged for your assistant to contact them all on your behalf this morning and reschedule.’ He checked his watch. ‘And naturally I’ll compensate you
for any commission that you lose on account of this reshuffling.’

  ‘Fee’s cleared my diary? On your orders?’ Laura croaked. Her head was beginning to spin.

  ‘You’ll find the timings much more convenient now.’

  She stood up hotly, hoping to God Fee hadn’t installed CCTV for training purposes. She felt his eyes on her as she marched towards the door. There was simply nothing more to say. She had been reasonable; she had been polite. And now she was all out of both. ‘You need to leave now. I’m sorry not to have been able to help you,’ she said coldly, opening the door. She held out an arm and motioned for him to leave. ‘I hope you’re more successful hijacking Christmas for your wife somewhere else.’

  His shock was palpable. ‘Now hold on! Did you hear the terms I offered you? I’m paying double your fee.’

  ‘There’s no need to talk to me as if I’m an idiot. You’re the one who’s not hearing, Mr Blake.’

  ‘Surely this is an offer too good to refuse.’

  ‘I don’t think so. This is my business and I work for exactly who I like, and that does not include people who rearrange my diary for their spoilt wives. It will no doubt surprise you to learn that I don’t do this for the money.’

  There was a flinty silence as he took in her cold anger and her firm hand on the open door. ‘Okay, look, I’ve offended you, I can see that,’ he said, backtracking quickly. ‘But you are the only person I can come to for this.’ It seemed he’d decided flattery was now the best form of attack.

  ‘I find that hard to believe. There are plenty of jewellers out there and most are a lot more experienced than me.’

  ‘But the charms . . . no one else is doing what you’re doing. Look, I’ve bought Cat everything over the years – watches, diamonds, you name it. But this necklace, it’ll be the only piece that actually means anything to her. Please.’ His voice cracked suddenly. ‘This gift has to show her how much I lov— What she means to me.’ He paused for a moment, his previously gloating eyes now boyish and appealing. ‘Everything rests on it.’

  But Laura was unmoved. ‘You had the nerve to order my staff to rearrange my commitments to suit your schedule, and that is bang out of order in my book. Now I’ll ask you again: Please. Leave. I have a lot of phone calls to make.’

  They both knew she had won. Slowly, he walked to the door, then stopped by the steps in front of her. ‘You’re making a big mistake.’

  ‘That’s my loss, then. Goodbye,’ she said stonily, slamming the door firmly behind him. ‘And good riddance.’

  She was pretty sure he heard that.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Hi, Tom,’ Laura said tonelessly, leaning on the tall mahogany bar and giving the crowded room a quick once-over. In contrast to her studio, which was all about driftwood and artist’s light, Tom’s Seafood and Champagne Bar had gone the other way with the nautical theme, lifting materials direct from the shipyard: the highly polished floor was teak, thick rope intended for tethers had been used for the banisters, the blinds were made from brown clinker-sail canvas, and brass cleats had become coat hooks. Sepia shots of Gatsby-esque schooners adorned the walls, and upturned half-cut boats had been fitted with shelves and were used to store the glasses. Half the tables were already taken, and most of the chairs were turned towards the panoramic windows to watch the dusk blooming like a feather-edged peony against the vanilla sky.

  The portly barman looked up from polishing two glasses. ‘Laura,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Busy tonight.’

  ‘Aye. The new chef’s bringing ’em in. His lobster taglia-telle’s a treat. Fresh saffron, white crab meat . . .’

  Laura nodded approvingly.

  ‘Tempted?’

  She shook her head apologetically, her fine hair polishing her shoulders. ‘I’d love to, but Jack’s already got dinner on. I’ve got to make this quick. I don’t suppose—’

  ‘No. Not seen her,’ Tom said quickly, opening a bottle of crème de cassis and pouring it into two glasses.

  Laura raised an eyebrow and rested her clasped hands on the counter. ‘Where have you not seen her?’

  ‘Well, not behind that pillar, for a start,’ he said, uncorking a bottle of the house champagne and pouring it on to the crème de cassis.

  Laura took two steps to the right and caught sight of a skinny ankle jigging furiously next to a plastic Hello Kitty bag. ‘Send over two fresh glasses when you get a chance, will you?’

  ‘Sure thing. D’you want to try one of these? Kir royale?’

  Laura looked at the glass suspiciously. ‘Not unless it’s on the house – otherwise just our usual.’

  She picked her way cautiously through the tables, taking care not to knock anyone’s drinks with the bags looped over her arm. The furious ankle seemed to pick up speed as she approached, almost as though its owner was picking up on her presence.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ Laura asked, looking down at the fresh-skinned, heart-shaped face that was cringing up at her.

  ‘Your squelch.’

  Laura looked down at her red Hunter wellies. They were still shiny from her wade through the water on the way back from the studio; a tendril of seaweed clung limply to the seam around the ankle.

  ‘You’re the only person Tom allows to wear wellies in here. Working late again?’

  ‘Thanks to you,’ Laura said pointedly, dropping the shoe bag on the floor and taking the empty seat.

  Fee nervously reached for the drink she’d been nursing since she arrived, grateful that there were too many witnesses present for Laura to make an attempt on her life. ‘Look, Laur, I know you might be a bit cross . . .’

  ‘A bit?’

  ‘Okay, maybe more than a bit—’

  ‘Try bloody fuming.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I know you might be a bit bloody fuming that I took the order without telling you, but I only had your interests at heart, I promise.’

  ‘Oh really? And that’s your job, is it?’

  ‘As your manager, yes.’

  ‘Self-appointed manager. I never asked, and I can’t afford to pay you,’ Laura reminded her.

  ‘Well, you can now,’ Fee winked, hopeful of raising a smile. Nada. ‘Anyway, I’m doing this out of love, aren’t I?’

  Laura looked at her perky, buoyant friend. Petite and whippet-thin with a heart-shaped face, prominent blue eyes and shoulder-length blonde hair as wispy as candyfloss, she was Laura’s opposite in every way. Fee was bright, bouncy, bonny, bubbly and all other happy things beginning with B. Laura was brooding, belligerent, bony. She always felt heavier-footed than her feather-light friend, as though she trod through her life with a weighted soul – or at least with wellies on.

  ‘It isn’t up to you, or the client, to say how I run my business.’

  ‘Well now, I hate to point it out, but you wouldn’t have a business if it wasn’t for me. You don’t always know what’s best for you. You’d still be tinkering with dodgy brooches no one ever saw, much less wore, if I hadn’t had that ad of Mum’s necklace made up.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘Yes, it was. And it’s why you’re doing so well now.’ She leaned forward on her skinny arms. ‘Come on, Laur, the guy made an offer that you couldn’t walk away from.’

  ‘Funny how I did, then.’

  ‘Yes, well, you’re just—’ Fee’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’

  ‘I chucked him out. I’m not doing it. I’ve spent all afternoon reinstating the appointments.’

  ‘Oh no, you didn’t?’ Fee moaned, dropping her head in her hands and showing off this week’s colour on her gel nails – a strong lilac that seemed better suited to a little girl’s bedroom. ‘Laur, why didn’t you at least speak to me about it?’

  ‘Why didn’t you speak to me about it?’ Laura hissed back. ‘How could you let me go into that meeting and be totally banjaxed like that? You know how much I hate meeting new people. It’s the reason why I didn’t want to go professional in the first place. And you
just left me to be bullied by some rich guy who walks in and starts telling me he’s cleared my diary.’

  ‘I thought you’d be made up,’ Fee moaned, raking her hands through her fine blonde hair.

  ‘What, because he offered double?’

  ‘It was more than double, actually.’ She dropped her hands flat on to the table. ‘As soon as I told him you were booked up till Christmas, he offered double on the spot and I hadn’t even given him your rates.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘So I bumped it up from eight hundred a charm to twelve hundred.’

  ‘Twelve hundred?’ Laura’s voice was suddenly quieter.

  Fee nodded. ‘And he was going to pay double that. Don’t you get it, Laur? That was your biggest commission yet. You’d have netted nearly seventeen grand.’

  Seventeen grand?

  The two women stared at each other, one with a look of dawning horror, the other with a look of despair.

  ‘But I . . . I mean, I . . . Well, I didn’t realize it was so much,’ Laura whispered. She picked up Fee’s glass and took a hefty slug. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll say,’ Fee muttered, wrangling the glass back and draining it herself. ‘I could’ve paid off my credit card with my thirty per cent take.’

  ‘Thirty per cent?’ Laura looked at her sharply. ‘Who said anything about thirty per cent?’

  Fee shrugged. ‘That’s the going rate.’ She patted Laura’s hand lightly. ‘And you don’t need to look so shocked – that does cover PR and managerial duties.’

  ‘Oh God, I can’t believe I chucked him out.’

  Fee looked at her optimistically. ‘How badly did you chuck him out? I mean, what are we talking about here – did you chuck his briefcase in the river? Or did you just do your mega-posh Ice Queen voice that you do when you get pissed off?’

  ‘I slammed the door in his face and told him good riddance.’

  ‘Huh. A mix of both, then. Excellent. Well done.’ Fee collapsed her head into her nested arms.

  Tom came over with a tray and set down two slim flutes and a bottle of the Prosecco that passed as the ‘out of season’ house champagne. ‘What’s up with you two? Thought you said you were going to be celebrating, Fee?’