Читать книгу Carrington’s at Christmas: The Complete Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s, Ice Creams at Carrington’s - Alexandra Brown, Lindsey Kelk - Страница 31

Back on the shop floor and I’ve barely made it to my counter when the wall phone rings. I grab the receiver before glancing at the clock. Roll on home time – today feels like the longest day ever.

‘Women’s Accessories. Georgie Hart speaking,’ I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. I glance over at James’s section but he’s busy with a customer. Then he looks over, catches me watching and quickly flicks his eyes away. My cheeks burn as I study the wall instead.

‘This is Borek … Mr Malikov’s personal assistant. He requests your company this evening at a pre-opera soirée in his suite at the Mulberry Grand Hotel.’

Silence follows.

The Grand. That’s where Nathan took Sam for her birthday, and it’s the best hotel for miles around. But I can’t go and meet Malikov in a hotel suite. It’s crazy. His car is one thing, but a hotel room? No way. And then I realise that Borek is accustomed to people automatically accepting his master’s requests without question.

‘Err, weell,’ I say, hesitantly.

‘You must. Mr Malikov insists you come.’

Oh God, I was hoping to slope off home and comfort-eat my way through a massive pizza polished off with a red velvet or two. Then I remember Maxine’s request that she be informed – maybe she’ll even come with me. It’ll mean having to put up with her pageant smile and bouncy big hair for an evening, but at least I won’t have to go alone. ‘Actually, the last time I met with Mr Malikov he told me my boss would need to be present fo—’ I say, hopefully.

‘Ah,’ he interjects, and then keeps me waiting. I’m sure I can hear Malikov’s voice in the background.

‘Yes, Mr Malikov insists your boss comes too.’ My heart races … the Chiavacci bags, it must be. He’s going to buy them. If I can secure the sale and credit the commission to James, then maybe he’ll forgive me. My mood is instantly lifted.

‘Wonderful, what time should we arrive?’

‘Seven o’clock and the dress is –’ there’s a short pause – ‘cocktail attire,’ he finishes, as if he’s just spotted the dress code description in a book about high-society etiquette.

‘Of course, and thank you,’ I say, before pressing to end the call. I quickly dial Maxine’s extension, praying she can make it at such short notice.

‘Yes?’ she answers, sounding all breathy and seductive, before I’ve barely finished dialling her extension.

‘Maxine, it’s Georgie here.’

‘Oh, I, err, didn’t realise,’ she says, quite obviously hoping it was someone else. Tom, I bet! I clear my throat.

‘You wanted to know about meetings with private customers. Well, I’ve been invited to a drinks soirée this evening,’ I say, wishing he’d given me more notice. There’s a sharp intake of breath followed by a huff that sounds very much like disappointment. So she’s already had enough of being kept informed of everything. Knew she would.

‘Where is it?’ she asks.

‘Err … The Mulberry Grand. In his suite.’ She doesn’t bother to ask who the customer is.

‘Oooh,’ she says, sounding interested now.

‘Yes, he specifically asked for you to come too,’ I say, appealing to her vanity. I can’t afford for her to be awkward about it. This might be my only chance to sell him the Chiavaccis. And at £4,975 each, I need to pull out all the stops.

‘Well, in that case we shall go together,’ she says, sounding excited, while I contemplate how long it will take me to bus it home and grab a suitable outfit.

‘And it’s cocktail dress,’ I quickly tell her.

‘Marvellous, sure I can squeeze in a quick trip out for a new Prada frock this afternoon,’ she says. I hang up, thinking: good luck with that … I know for a fact there aren’t any shops in the whole of Mulberry-On-Sea that stock Prada. This is a quintessential English seaside town, not Beverly Hills, where you can pop to Rodeo Drive whenever you feel like it.

On arrival at the Mulberry Grand we’re met by a Malikov minion and ushered up and into a buttercup-yellow panelled drawing room, bursting with red heart-shaped balloons. The Valentine’s theme is continued through to the main room with cardboard Cupids suspended from the chandeliers and dusty pink rose petals scattered all over the sumptuous red carpet. There must be around fifty people milling around. The women are all dressed in Versace or Gucci and sporting overbleached WAG-style hairdos and lots of gold. And the men all look like extras from a Cold War spy thriller. Stuffed into black tuxedos and knocking back spirits from crystal shot glasses, before reaching for a canapé from the trays carried by milling waitresses.

Batting a balloon away from my face, I scan the room but can’t see Malikov. A waitress thrusts a tray at us and I opt for an orange juice, figuring it is best to keep a clear head. Maxine jabs a bony finger at a large bottle of Stoli Gold, hesitates and then wavers over the Cristall before finally settling on the Zyr. The waitress pours her a generous measure into a frosted shot glass complete with strawberry accompaniment nestling on the side, which Maxine necks in one before tossing the strawberry into her mouth too.

‘Zakuska?’ Another waitress appears in front of us, bearing a tray with a selection of bite-sized pickles and rolled-up fish on miniature slices of black bread. But Maxine bats the girl away before I get a chance to decide what to try and then turns her back to me while she hunts for another vodka waitress. She’s wearing a back-plunging Prada dress that clings to her frame as if she were sewn into it. So she managed to find a stockist then.

‘I thought you’d be wearing the necklace.’ Malikov makes me jump as he booms the words out over my shoulder. Turning to face him, his eyes fix on mine before flickering over towards Maxine’s back. It’s as though he’s telepathically telling me that he intended on her hearing him. Then his mouth curls up at one side until it resembles a nasty sneer. An icy hand clutches at my heart. What the hell is he playing at? I thought it was to be our secret. Maxine turns back to join us.

‘I’m off for a cigarette,’ she says, her face giving nothing away as she sashays off. Maybe she didn’t hear him. And she obviously doesn’t realise Malikov is standing next to us, because if she did then surely the cigarette could have waited. I let out a tiny sigh of relief and wait for Malikov to stop ogling Maxine’s pert bottom.

‘Well, I err, didn’t think it really matched this dress.’

He glances down at my body before bringing his eyes back to mine.

‘My associate is very disappointed.’ So that’s his game. The short-notice invite … he’s annoyed after the message I left for him earlier on, saying that we couldn’t supply the bags without ID verification. ‘I thought we were friends.’ He stares at me. My stomach tightens.

‘Of course,’ I smile. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that we have to have his ID an—’

‘But you said you would ship the goods to Russia. For the sisters.’

‘And I will, just as soon as the paperwork is in place. It’s a legal thing. Perhaps I should talk to him and explain,’ I say, seeing the Chiavacci sale and my chance to appease James floating away right before my eyes.

‘You already are.’ Whaat? What’s he going on about? So there is no associate. The bags were for him all along … but why didn’t he just say? And then I get it. He couldn’t, that’s the whole point. He wants the high-value goods but doesn’t want to be associated with them. No wonder his ‘people’ made all those calls asking about CCTV, on the pretext of protecting Malikov’s security. He didn’t want his ugly mug caught on camera. No wonder he wanted the most expensive items and paid in cash. Dirty cash. It has to be. Probably from the sale of his guns … and God knows what else.

The room sways. I’m in way too deep. His disgusting flirting, planting the necklace. Why the hell didn’t I just return it? I must be going mad not to have realised.

‘I don’t understand,’ I say, desperately trying to buy some time to get my head together. He leans in towards me and, with a voice as cold as ice, he whispers,

‘I know all about you.’ My thighs tremble. I remember the gun. For a moment I’m scared I might actually pass out. ‘Why else would I bother with you and your provincial little store when I can buy whatever I want, wherever I want?’

I place my hand on the table to steady myself. Of course, right at the start he said he’d carried out checks. God knows what he found out about me, but he’s obviously targeted me as a weak link – up to her eyes in debt so might just go for it. Ship stuff to Russia. No questions asked. Certainly no requirement for him to be bothered by mere ‘paperwork’. I hate myself. What an utterly stupid fool I am.

‘Perhaps I should tell your boss you accepted the necklace as a gift. Or maybe you stole it when you were in my car. Wanted to treat yourself ahead of Valentine’s Day … because I doubt very much anyone else will be bothering,’ he says, tossing me a nasty up-and-down look. I bite down hard on the inside of my bottom lip.

Malikov surveys me, scanning my face as he waits for my next move, taunting me like a cat with an injured mouse. Then something comes over me – it’s like an animalistic instinct.

‘What do you want?’ My voice trembles, the words barely audible, but I manage to keep my eyes fixed on his. I pray to myself that the jeweller still has the necklace. And then a chilling thought seeps into my head. Something that could ruin me forever … if I get found out. What if he still wants me to ship stuff to Russia? What if there’s drug money too? I’ll be implicated. I could go to prison and end up in some tiny cell no bigger than my bathroom with bunk beds chained to the floor and a geezer bird who stashes mobile phones up her Aunty Mary. Oh yes, I’ve watched the Channel Five documentaries. This is bad. Really really bad. He hesitates briefly before delivering his verdict.

‘Nothing,’ he spits.

‘I’ll return the neck—’ I start, but he cuts me short.

‘What are you talking about? I said nothing.’ And he turns his back on me and limps away.

My head is spinning. I quickly drain the orange juice, wishing that I’d opted for one of the vodka shots now, and then manage to force my legs to carry me into the corridor. I find the bathroom and, after locking the door behind me, I crumple to the floor. My whole body is trembling. Tears fly uncontrollably down my cheeks. I feel like such a disaster – he played me right from the start in the personal shopping suite. Banking on my stupidness and desperation. The feeling of self-loathing is unbearable. I’ve ruined everything.

After what feels like an eternity I manage to haul myself back up onto a chair. I sit and stare at myself in the mirror, trying to unravel what just happened. And I get it. Of course. He was lying. I let out a laugh. A horrible, hysterical laugh. There is something he wants, something money can’t buy, not even his vast fortune. He wants respectability. And respectable people don’t resort to underhand tricks to get what they want. No wonder he was so happy to develop sudden memory loss over having given me the necklace. Thank God he didn’t want it back. It’s a small comfort, though, seeing as I’m now going to be looking over my shoulder, forever wondering what his next move might be.

When I return to his suite the drinking is in full swing, but I can’t see Maxine or Malikov. Oh Jesus. What if he’s busy stitching me up right now? As I’m working myself up into another state of frenzy, a door at the far end of the room opens and Maxine appears. She does her model walk towards me, closely followed by Malikov, but I can’t quite see her face through the thick of the crowd mingled together with the Valentine’s balloons. I pray my hunch is right and he’s kept his mouth shut.

‘Time to go,’ she says, without a trace of knowing. I smile, and quickly glance at Malikov, who ignores me and turns his attentions on Maxine. ‘One of my assistants will be in touch,’ she says, sounding showy. ‘I do hope you enjoy your opera this evening.’ She treats him to her pageant smile and a big hair toss. He kisses the back of her hand, lingeringly, gazing up at her face from under his fleshy eyelids.

‘Enchanted,’ he says to Maxine, before throwing me a quick look of disgust. He turns back to join his friends.

‘I’m going to be managing his shopping requirements from now on. Seeing as he’s such a big customer,’ Maxine says, tossing her hair around again as we leave the room and make our way towards the foyer.

‘Oh, OK,’ I say, tentatively.

‘It’s not a problem, is it?’ she says, breezily.

‘Err, no, should it be?’ I ask, wondering where she’s going with this.

‘I don’t think so.’ And then she hits me with it. ‘But of course the necklace will need to be returned. You know the rules.’ My blood runs cold, the acid taste of bile swirls into the back of my throat. So she did hear him after all. But I can’t return it, Malikov will go mental, especially after his ‘nothing’ comment. And I can’t afford to buy it back in any case, even if the jeweller hasn’t sold it on. My head spins, and the saliva drains from my mouth.

‘But I didn’t accept it … he, err …’ She whips her hand up and I immediately stop talking. Fear fills every single pore on my body. Please don’t let her sack me. Please don’t let her sack me. I say it over and over, in synch with my hammering heart. Then I hold my breath, waiting for her to say the words, that she’ll be informing security or, God forbid … the actual police!

‘Whatever. Give it to me and I’ll make sure he gets it back.’ My heart skips a beat, forcing an involuntary cough to escape. ‘We’ve all done it. In fact, you remind me so much of myself at your age. The secret is to not get caught.’ She turns her face towards mine and does a little Joan Holloway pout. ‘Oh, don’t look so worried. Your secret is safe with me. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.’ My heart nose-dives. I can’t bear it. Maxine’s hold grips even tighter now, like a hangman’s noose. And I don’t want to be like her. Participating in mutual back-scratching sessions. Game-playing and manipulating. I feel as though I’m suffocating and there’s no way out of this nightmare that I’ve got myself into.

‘Thank you,’ I say, silently praying the jeweller still has the necklace. I can’t even imagine what she’ll do to me if I fail to produce it.

‘Good, then we’ll say no more about it,’ she says, and I’m sure I detect a hint of satisfaction in her voice. Something else she has over me, and I swear I can feel the pressure of the thumbscrews as she tightens them just a little bit more.

*

The very minute my toe is over the threshold of my doorway I race down the hallway and into the lounge. Panic-stricken, I glance around and catch my reflection in the window. I quickly race over and activate the blind to shield my shame from the lights twinkling outside in the dark. Then, tearing at the bookcase, I manage to retrieve the first card I hid after grabbing and shaking out several books. I’m drenched in sweat, fear gripping my stomach as I run into the kitchen and fling open the freezer door. I grab the tub of ice cream and, after ripping the black masking tape from the lid, I claw at the rock-hard yellow mixture. My fingertips sting as I try and push down further. But it’s no use. I run over to the sink and shove the tub under the hot tap. Eventually the ice cream starts to thaw, and there it is, dazzling like a proud Arabian palace in the desert. The second one that I hid: my gold credit card.