‘Hello darling, what a wonderful surprise. Is everything OK?’ His voice sounds worried. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ There’s an awkward silence.
‘I am at work,’ I reply, a little too sharply. ‘Well, I just popped out and … err, I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you the other day,’ I manage, trying to disguise the unease in my voice. ‘So how are you?’ I add, awkwardly.
‘I’m fine. A bit tired. Anyway, enough about me. It’s so nice to hear from you,’ he says, and for a moment it’s as though everything that’s gone on between us before has been forgotten in an instant. But then my back constricts. I start to feel as though calling him was a bad idea, and I realise that I’m just not ready to forget what he did to us … especially to Mum. ‘You know I was telling Uncle Geoffrey how well you’ve done, and he said to pass on his love.’ The thought of my dad’s brother conjures up images of when it all happened. I remember Uncle Geoffrey bringing over suitcases full of my cousin Olivia’s old cast-offs. Olivia is a couple of years older than me and has always been much taller. But ‘beggars can’t be choosers’, that’s what Uncle Geoffrey used to say when he hauled the suitcase up onto the kitchen table. Mum would thank him profusely for his generosity while I stood there shivering in my vest and knickers waiting to try on the clothes that were always too big. And all the time I was thinking I’d make sure I had nice clothes that fitted me properly when I was grown-up.
‘So how’s work?’ he asks, plugging the gap of silence.
‘Fine.’ I decide not to tell him what’s happened. I don’t want Uncle Geoffrey to know I might be unemployed soon with grim prospects. Gloating, just like he did all those years ago in the kitchen. The thought makes me panicky, it will be near on impossible to find another job if I’m let go. There are so many people getting laid off at the moment, I’ll be on the scrapheap before I’m even thirty.
‘So what’s up then?’ he asks, knowing me too well.
‘Nothing.’ I hate myself for lying.
‘You can always talk to me, darling …’ His voice trails off and I feel terrible. I shouldn’t have called him. Not now. Breaking the silence I mutter, ‘Dad … please don’t.’
‘I’m sorry darling. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
I swallow hard and feel like a fool. I should never have burdened myself with a ridiculous 125 per cent mortgage. And for what? Just to fit in? Make myself feel better? To prove a point to the girls in the playground? My mind spins and for a moment I feel as though I’m suffocating.
‘You enjoy it darling. You’ve worked extremely hard and I know it wasn’t easy for you, starting out with nothing and having to cope with what I did. And all alone too. But you did it, and long may it continue. I’m very proud of you.’
‘Thank you,’ I mumble, just about managing to mask the well of emotion that’s going to burst at any moment. I have to keep the job.
‘And Mum would be too,’ Dad adds, quietly. Tears start streaming down my face now, I can’t hold them in, and I try and force myself to stop crying. I put my free hand over my mouth so Dad can’t hear the gasps. ‘Hello. Georgie are you still there? Hello, hello?’ I can hear Dad’s voice but I can’t speak. ‘Damn gadgets, useless waste of time,’ Dad puffs, before hanging up.
I shove my phone into my pocket and pull out an old tissue to blow my nose on. I feel utterly crap as I carry on walking.
Gino’s, as always, looks warm and inviting. Its 1950s décor of blue and white tiles above caramel-coloured painted wood panels is old-fashioned but comforting, and with a bit of luck I won’t bump into anybody from work in here.
‘Bella! Long time no see.’ Gino looks up from a huge bowl of green pesto he’s lovingly spooning into small pots, and I manage to smile back, hoping my tissue rescue job performed a few minutes ago outside has worked well enough to hide the tear stains. ‘What can I get you, a milky tea?’
‘Yes please. And lots of sugar,’ I say, suddenly craving a sugar rush like it’s the only excitement on offer these days.
‘Take a seat and I’ll bring it over,’ he says, gesturing with his hand towards the tables.
‘Thank you.’ I make my way over to a corner one and busy myself with draping my coat across the back of the rickety wooden chair, when Mrs Grace, my predecessor in Women’s Accessories, appears at my side.
‘Mind if I join you, love?’ she says, unbuttoning her wool coat before patting the back of her Garnier blonde Aunty Bessie bun. I shake my head, not wanting to be rude, and she sits down opposite me. Gino arrives with our drinks and hands us two steaming pink mugs.
‘Thanks Gino,’ I say, and he dashes back to the counter.
‘A little treat to cheer you up.’ Mrs Grace pulls a red foil-wrapped chocolate heart from her granny handbag and places it on the table in front of me. Her kindness makes me well up again. ‘Oh lovey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you again. Come on now, no tears. I spotted you leaving the store when I was outside having a ciggy. I could see you were upset so I followed you. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘Sorry.’ I dab my eyes again.
‘Tell me,’ she says gently, handing me a napkin. ‘I’m old, but sometimes a friendly ear can help.’ Mrs Grace looks across at me, her crinkly eyes full of concern. And the whole story comes tumbling out like a confessional.
‘You’ll be fine, sweetheart,’ Mrs Grace says, when I’ve finished telling her everything. ‘I’ve seen it all before. These high-flying types … coming in and shaking us all up with their fancy ideas.’ Mrs Grace crosses her arms and purses her lips. ‘And I must say that Maxine one is very full of herself. Nothing a decent square meal wouldn’t fix, mind you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, it’s the hunger, dear – makes them all edgy and overzealous,’ she explains, rolling her eyes.
Mrs Grace has heard everything, about today’s meeting with Maxine, and how I’ve now got to compete with James and Tom if I’m to stand a chance of keeping my job and not lose everything. I’ve even confided in her about my guilty secret crush on Tom, even though he can’t be trusted. And how deep down I’m fed up of spending Valentine’s Day on my own. Let alone going to a wedding that will no doubt be crammed full of happy couples, while I’m being ‘Bridget Jones alone’, unless a miracle occurs and I manage to find an actual date to invite. I yearn to look forward to 14 February, to feel excited. And light and skippy and in love, just as I was once with Brett. She also listened patiently while I told her about my debilitating debt problem and how it could totally ruin everything if it comes out. I’ll be deemed a risk.
‘Oh, I wish it were that easy, Mrs Grace,’ I say, trying to feel brighter.
‘And you tell James that he must stop touching your fingers. He has a wife,’ Mrs Grace says sternly, wagging her bony finger in the air. I manage a feeble giggle, imagining James’s face if I actually said that to him. Besides, he might not even speak to me now we’re going to be competing. ‘Though I heard on the grapevine that he and Maxine were once an item.’ She folds her arms.
My mouth drops open.
‘Whaat?’ I manage.
‘James and Maxine. They went out together after meeting on some training course in London, before he met and married his wife.’ She shakes her head. ‘That Maxine is now a woman scorned, I imagine. And James’s future is in her hands.’
I try to take in this piece of information. It all makes sense now, his reaction when she was introduced. And Mrs Grace could be wrong about who had dumped who: what if Maxine favours James? She could still have a thing for him. Or worse still, James might rekindle what he had with her. I know he’s married, but she is supermodel-stunning after all. Then where would that leave me – she’s hardly going to get rid of him if they are an item, is she?
I grab my bag. ‘Oh, look at the time,’ I say in a breezy voice. ‘I’d better go, but thanks so much for the sympathetic ear, Mrs Grace,’ I say gratefully.
‘Fate will see you right, my dear,’ she whispers, and sudden
ly my mind is crystal clear. I know what I have to do. ‘And don’t give up on Cupid … his arrow will find a way to your heart,’ she smiles, and gives me a big hug, enveloping me in a comforting, nostalgic mixture of stale perfume and Revlon lipstick.
11
‘There you are.’ Eddie runs towards me as soon as I step out of the staff lift. He looks agitated. ‘Do you know where James is?’
‘Err … no. What’s up?’
‘It’s the Russian – seems he’s in the mood for more shopping and I’ve been calling your section for the last half-hour at least,’ he pants.
‘Sorry.’
‘Well, you’re here now. James has gone AWOL, can’t get hold of him at all and the Russian is going to be here like any minute now. You better hurry, he wants you to meet him outside by the main entrance.’
‘But why?’ I ask, wondering why he can’t just come in the store like all the other customers. I mean, it’s not as if he’s mega-famous or anything. Probably just thinks it makes him look exclusive or something.
‘I don’t know, something about a late lunch en route to the airport.’ Eddie nudges me. ‘Hubba hubba,’ he laughs, and I swat him on the arm.
‘Stop it, you’re revolting.’ A shiver of panic courses through me at the prospect of being alone with Malikov.
‘You’d better watch out.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, before you know it he’ll have you drenched in Shalimar and spread-eagled across his leatherette waterbed while he sucks on a Monte Cristo and asks you to call him Daddy.’
‘Err, ran-dom! Even by your standards,’ I say, stifling a giggle.
‘You mark my words.’ Eddie folds his arms and looks at me, meaningfully.
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous. He probably just wants me to escort him around the store or up to the personal shopping suite. And besides, he’s not that old,’ I protest, desperately clinging to my own words for reassurance.
‘Oh well, why not – at least it’s a bit of excitement, unlike the rest of Mulberry-On-Sea.’
‘If it’s so boring here, why do you stay?’
‘Cos you’re here. The very best friend a girl could have.’ He looks serious for a brief moment. ‘I can talk to you and you never judge me, that counts for a lot in my book.’
‘Aw, that’s so nice Ed.’
‘Hmm, lap it up pussycat because it’s the only time I’m saying it.’ I squeeze his cheek and he shoves my hand away. ‘Whatevs! Now go. You don’t want to keep your sugar daddy waiting.’ Eddie makes a shooing action towards me.
‘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.
Cupcakes at Carrington’s (Carringtons Department Store 1) Page 9
