‘Oh, I, err, was thinking cash?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice even. There’s no way I can put a cheque for such a large amount through my bank account without questions being asked. The whole bank will probably explode in shock, especially after its computer said a massive whopping ‘no’ to extending my overdraft.
‘OK, have to be less for cash, though. And you do realise that the resale figure will be less than the one for insurance purposes. Unless you have the provenance documentation?’ he asks, raising an eager eyebrow.
I shake my head.
‘How much less?’ I ask, wishing I didn’t sound so desperate. He scrawls on the paper again and thrusts it in front of me.
‘But that’s thirty per cent less,’ I state, keeping my voice low and trying to ignore the panic that’s swirling in the pit of my stomach. What the hell was I thinking, coming back here? I hesitate, and clutch the handles of my tote.
‘Look, I could go to twenty-eight per cent less,’ he says, scribbling on the paper before swinging it around to show me. I glance down at the revised figure.
‘How would twenty be?’ I ask, figuring it’s worth a go but feeling ashamed that I’ve resorted to this. He laughs.
‘Twenty-six. And that’s my final offer.’ He goes to scribble on the paper again but I beat him to it by placing my hand down. I swallow and think of the credit report. The sleepless nights. Maxine’s modernising makeover. Keeping my job. My lack of qualifications. And how I’ve made fifteen online applications for other jobs so far, ranging from data entry clerk to receptionist, and I haven’t even managed to get an interview. Even though I can’t bear the thought of leaving Carrington’s, I figured I should have a backup plan. And with Maxine’s warning to have everything in order, there’s no other way – even the car and the flat are worth less than their outstanding finance, so I can’t just sell them and save money that way.
But Mrs Grace said that fate would see me right and it has, sort of … Malikov didn’t have to give me the necklace and nobody at work knows about it. It’s enough to pay off all three credit cards plus the store card. And Malikov is bound to be offended if I return the necklace now; he’ll think I’ve deliberately double-crossed him. I can’t risk upsetting him, not after James told me not to, and not if there’s a chance of him buying the Chiavacci bags. I swallow again, and a twitch starts up at the corner of my right eyelid.
‘OK.’ Blood pounds in my ears.
He nods, and then instructs me to follow him through to the office. ‘Take a seat.’ I do as I’m told and he leaves the room. My heart is racing. Fate will see me right, I say inside my head, over and over, until I’ve convinced myself that it’s meant to be.
The door flings open and the jeweller returns with several cloth bank bags and a paper invoice that he hands to me. I quickly shove it into my bag. My mouth feels dry as he dumps the cloth bags down on the table and starts ripping the paper bands from each of the bundles of cash. He then runs each wad through the money counter before placing them into envelopes. Once he’s finished counting, he pushes the pile of envelopes towards me before offering his hand. We shake on the deal and he makes his way to the door.
Just as he reaches it, he turns back to me. ‘I’ll leave you for a few minutes to get organised.’ Organised? What does he mean? I feel confused. I stare at him. ‘The money.’ He motions to the table. ‘You might want to put it away,’ he adds, looking at me as though I’m stupid. And maybe he has a point. Perhaps I am stupid. But I can’t back out now.
‘Oh, yes, of course. I was just wondering whether my bag would be big enough,’ I say, nervously patting my shopper, and feeling out of my depth. I wait for the click of the door before reaching out to the money. My hands are shaking, and my blood feels as though it might pump right out through my eye sockets as I lean over the table and start thrusting the envelopes into my bag.
Back at home, I run into the kitchen and grab the scissors from the drawer. I frantically cut my store cards into tiny pieces. Then I reach for the credit cards. My right hand is trembling and I feel scared. I’ve never felt so alone. Not even after Mum died and the social worker collected me from the hospital to take me to Nanny Jean’s house – at least the buck didn’t stop with me when it came to paying for everything. What if there’s an emergency? I waver and then relinquish myself to the feeling of panic at not having my safety net to fall back on. I only manage to cut up one of the credit cards.
I walk into the lounge, and stand in front of the bookcase, and after squeezing my eyes tight shut I reach out to grab a book. Then I quickly ram the other credit card in between the pages, before pushing it back onto the shelf, feeling with my fingertips until it’s safely back in place. I count to ten before I let myself open my eyes. Then I gather together all of my card statements and shove them into my bag. First thing tomorrow morning I’m going to pay them off. The surge of relief is overwhelming. I’ll finally be able to sleep at night. I can’t wait.
But there’s one card left, the gold card, and I know the perfect place for that.
14
It’s seven o’clock on Thursday evening, late-night shopping, and I feel sick. I’m on a break and I’ve already eaten two mini-tubes of sour cream and onion Pringles, half a family bag of Haribo Favourites and, in a vain attempt to ease the guilt at having eaten so many E numbers, I polish off the last of a tub of fruit salad. The canteen is empty, but as I chase a slice of kiwi around the bottom of the plastic container, James appears.
‘I thought I was the only one in here,’ I say, feeling uncomfortable as we haven’t actually discussed the competition yet, or how he snapped at me on the phone. But before I can ask him about it he says,
‘Georgie, I want to apologise for the way I spoke to you the other day. It was totally unforgivable.’ He drops his eyes.
‘Oh forget it. As long as you’re OK,’ I smile.
He hesitates before replying.
‘I’m fine, just a bit stressed. Friends again?’ he grins, and I smile back.
‘Friends,’ I agree.
‘How’s it going?’ He perches down on the bench seat, just a few centimetres from me.
‘So-so …’ I start, but it’s no use. ‘Actually, that’s not true. This is awful, I feel so guilty after you employed me in the first place and now we’re having to compete.’ He looks at me with sparkly enquiring eyes.
‘Don’t be, these are tough times and we all have to do what we need to.’
I can’t believe he’s being so decent about it.
‘Look, I’ll live, let’s just see what happens.’ He grins at me and I grin back at him and try to shove the feeling of guilt aside. He holds his gaze on me and I shift uncomfortably.
‘James, I didn’t tell you what happened with Malikov. He only went an—’ But he holds a hand up as a signal for me to be quiet.
‘I think we should stop talking about work. And seeing as I’m not your boss any more, why don’t we go and grab a bite to eat later?’ he says, enthusiastically.
‘I’d love to but I’m fit to burst. I’ve just eaten my way through enough food to feed a small principality.’ I instantly wish that I hadn’t given him quite so much information. But James just laughs and follows it with, ‘Georgie, it doesn’t have to be dinner … you know a drink would suffice. Anyway, you have to come out with me, if only because you feel sorry for me.’ I study him carefully. Is he actually asking me out? I’m not sure. It feels like he is, but after hearing about him and Maxine, not to mention the fact he’s married, it’s as if I don’t know him any more – maybe I never really did. But then he didn’t have to put a note on my file to make sure my personal business was never mentioned, and he’s hot. It’s been ages since I lived dangerously.
‘Come on … a quick drink.’ He nudges me, and a giddy excitement suddenly bubbles through me. He flashes me a grin. I tell myself one drink won’t hurt.
*
As we step through the low door of the intimate candlelit bar, James heads straight
over to one of the booths.
‘More privacy here,’ he says, gesturing for me to take a seat. ‘What can I get you?’
‘A rosé, please,’ I say, pondering on what he means by ‘more privacy’ while he heads over to the bar. I can’t believe I’m actually alone in a bar with him. Earlier on it seemed a daring adventure, but now it feels weird, a little sordid even. What about his wife? I glance around to check there isn’t anyone from work in here and then quickly bring myself back down to earth … it’s just a drink with a work friend, that’s all. But when he reappears and his fingers brush mine as he hands me the glass of wine, I know that I’m kidding myself. Maybe I should try and probe him a little, find out what he’s playing at. I try the thought on for size, wishing I could just seize the moment and enjoy being alone with him. Maybe James does like me, and more than just as a colleague … or maybe he has a habit of having affairs with women at work. My head feels as if it might burst, it’s so full of possibilities, so I take a sip of wine and ponder on what I can say to find out. I open my mouth to speak at precisely the same time as his mobile rings.
‘Mind if I just get this?’ he whispers, gently touching my arm, and then quickly pulling his hand away before taking the call.
‘Of course,’ I reply, feeling tingly from his touch. He’s definitely being flirty … I know I’m not mistaken but I’m not sure I like it. I watch him for a moment as he wanders towards the bar, pushing his hand through his hair, his shoulders relaxed. I enjoy being with him, but not like this, not in secretive booths skulking around bars praying his wife doesn’t spot us. Mulberry-On-Sea can be such a small place sometimes. I’m not sure I could do that.
I quickly finish my wine and motion to him that I have to go.
‘Hold on a second,’ he says into the phone, and then to me, ‘Please … don’t go, I won’t be long.’ He covers the phone with his free hand and pulls a disappointed face.
‘Sorry James, I have to be up early,’ I say with a wry grin, before glancing at my watch to emphasise how late it is.
‘Sure, another time perhaps?’ he asks, his face scanning mine as I pull on my coat.
‘Maybe.’ I head off, wishing I knew what was going on and vowing to definitely find out … if there is another time. And part of me can’t help secretly hoping there is, even though I know I really shouldn’t.
15
On turning the corner of the street on my way into work for the red-eye meeting with Maxine, I see her pulling into the car park in a brand-spanking-new Audi TT. As I’m pondering on how she affords such an expensive car, she spots me.
‘Terrific timing,’ she gushes, as the electric window slides down. The door flings open just as the car park security guy runs over to assist her. ‘Too late,’ she says, dismissively, and shoos him away. As she emerges from the low-level seat, her brown cord skirt rides up over her perfect legs, and they splay open. And as she turns to step out of the car, she inadvertently flashes me a glimpse of her knickers. With a speed that could induce whiplash, I turn my head to hide the giggle, but it’s no use, so I disguise it as a cough instead.
‘Not ill again, are you?’ She treats me to her pageant smile.
What is it with her and illness? She’s obsessed. She turns back to the car and attempts to haul a pile of folders out from the foot well, after flinging a grey silk tie out of the way. Hmmm, I wonder who the tie belongs to? She’s obviously had a man in her car and he’s taken his tie off. I wonder what else he took off?
‘No, I’m fine. Here, let me give you a hand,’ I say, reaching out to take the folders from her and thinking surely it wouldn’t have been James? I forcibly shove the image from my head. I really don’t want to go there.
‘Oh, what a good Samaritan you are,’ she says jovially, and shoves the enormous stack of manila folders at me. With my chin barely reaching the top, I struggle to keep my handbag about my person. Thinking she’ll take the folders once she’s locked the car, I wait by the bonnet. But instead she strides off towards the staff entrance, swinging her gold-chained mini Chanel handbag with the gaiety of a Parisian girl skipping down the Champs Elysées in springtime. Presuming that I’m to follow her, I stagger along behind and then veer off towards the lift, thinking what a bloody cheek she has. I wish I hadn’t bothered to give her a hand now.
‘Oh no!’ she bellows, with such force, for a second I contemplate flinging the folders and body-slamming the floor in case she’s spotted a suicide bomber lurking. ‘The lift is for fat people,’ she continues, and with a self-satisfied shake of her head she breezes off.
‘Well, these weigh a ton, so I’ll have to see you up there,’ I quip, feeling pleased with myself for standing up to her as I stomp off.
‘All right then,’ she calls airily.
‘What are you doing in so early?’ It’s Eddie and he’s skulking in the corner of the lift.
‘I could ask you the same thing. I have my weekly one-to-one with the stick insect, what’s your excuse?’ I ask, my hackles still up. Eddie looks tired and dishevelled. His tie is crooked and his hair, which is usually all gelled and immaculate, is a squashed heap.
‘Been here since hell o’clock typing up her endless reports, that’s all. I’m just on my way home to get showered and changed as that ridiculously high-maintenance sex fiend,’ he pauses to jab an angry finger towards the doors, signifying he’s referring to Maxine, ‘has only insisted I come straight back.’
‘Oh Ed, that’s torture.’
‘Exactly! Even galley slaves got a break sometimes,’ he says, pulling a sucking-on-a-lemon face.
I try not to laugh at his indignation.
‘Do you know she even told me to find another job, if I didn’t like it? Said there are plenty of people who’d jump at the chance to work with her.’ Eddie crosses his arms and rolls his bloodshot eyes up towards the ceiling in a huff.
‘I’m sorry. Just try to ignore her,’ I say, wishing I could take my own advice. I manage to hoist the folders up against the handrail in an attempt to get some relief from their weight when the lift shudders to a halt.
‘For crying out loud, not again … must be the second time this week I’ve been stuck in this sodding lift.’ Eddie uncrosses his arms and stabs at the ‘call’ button. ‘How come you’ve got these?’ he says, glancing at the folders. ‘They’re personnel records … Maxine made me get them from HR. Of course, I checked with Walter first because they’re highly confidential, but he said to do whatever she asked. The flaming turncoat that he is,’ Eddie snorts.
‘Oh, like an idiot I offered to give her a hand with them. I bumped into her as she pulled up in her Audi TT,’ I tut.
‘Oh yeah, don’t start me on that. Bending my ear for days, she was, over that car. And what I’d like to know is how come Carrington’s is forking out for a company car? I thought we were on the verge of a terminal decline. Walter must be dafter than he looks. “Make sure it’s the gun-metal grey”,’ he says, running a suggestive hand down his chest and mimicking her breathy voice. ‘Over and over, to the point where I felt like pummelling her with some gun metal myself, and you know I’m not a violent man.’ He attempts a weak smile and I give him a sympathetic look.
‘So how come she’s managed to wangle a sports car and not a normal car then?’
‘Search me. It seems madam gets whatever she wants. And you want to see how much gear she has delivered to her office every day. All designer stuff too. But one thing is for sure, the board think she’s the best thing since sliced foie gras, and as for Walter, well, she’s got him wrapped right around her toothpick of a pinkie.’ He wiggles his little finger in the air, before yelling, ‘Hellooo, is anyone actually there?’ into the little speaker on the wall of the lift.
There’s a crackle of static before a male voice bellows, ‘Sorry guys, technical hitch. You’ll be on your way soon.’
‘Well, that’s just grrrreat,’ Eddie yells back.
‘You know she flashed at me when she dragged herself out of the car
earlier on,’ I say, lowering my voice in case the speaker is still active.
‘Oh purlease. That’s way too much information,’ he says, holding his hand up.
‘So, how’s your love life?’ I ask, changing the subject, wishing I could tell him about my drink with James.
‘Oh don’t. Smith deserted me … for somebody else. Story of my life,’ Eddie says, sticking his bottom lip out.
‘Oh, Ed, I’m so sorry. I’d give you a hug if I could but …’ I nod towards the folders.
‘And get this, only said we could still see each other. I ask you … flaming cheek,’ he sniffs, haughtily.
‘Damn right. Hope you told him to sod off.’
‘Weell, let’s just say I’m working on it.’ Eddie purses his lips, and I roll my eyes at him.
‘You’re such a manwhore.’
‘I know. Isn’t it fabulous,’ he sniggers. The lift rumbles into action again. I glance at the digital display.
‘Ed, you do know this lift is going up, don’t you?’ I tell him, and wonder if James will be in yet.
‘Well there you go, proof I’m officially mentally impaired from sleep deprivation,’ he sighs, waving jazz hands in the air. Then he pushes the button for the next floor.
‘I’m going to knuckle-drag my weary body out here and take the customer lift down. And you know what, I don’t give a fuck if I’m caught and disciplined, they can kiss my big queen arse,’ he says with a flourish.
‘Well try to get some sleep in the next few days,’ I call after him as he staggers out theatrically. He gives me a withering smile as he slides the cage door shut behind him.
The lift is just getting ready to move when a hand flies in between a gap in the metal. Instinctively, I lean over to press the ‘lift hold’ button, and momentarily forget about the folders. They crash to the floor as the cage door is slid open.
‘I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you.’ It’s Tom. I scrabble around trying to retrieve the folders, the contents of which have cascaded everywhere. Frantically, I try and cram the papers into their rightful folders. Tom is crouched down next to me, and his face is just a few centimetres from mine. I tug at the collar of my jacket. The heat in the confined space is suffocating. He hands me a heap of papers and then suddenly loses his balance and accidentally bumps into me. He quickly springs back up.
Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s Page 11