Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘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.

  24

  I’ve been standing outside the jeweller’s shop since eight a.m. Pressing my nose up to the window, like I have a million times in the last hour as I check for signs of activity, when I suddenly hear the sound of a key. The jeweller comes into view as he ambles through the shadowy shop towards me. As soon as he unbolts the door and flicks on the lights, I tear through into the shop.

  ‘Whoah! Where’s the fire?’

  ‘I need the necklace back. Have you still got it?’ I pant, pleading with my eyes for it to be here.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Oh, thank God. Here, you’ll have to spread the cost over these credit cards,’ I puff, shoving them at him. ‘Please, I have to have it straight away,’ I beg, as if getting it back absolves me of ever having sold it in the first place.

  ‘But I thought you preferred the money?’ he says.

  ‘I did, but that was then, and things have changed,’ I say, not daring to look him in the eye. I wish he would just get on with it. I didn’t sleep at all last night and my body is trembling with exhaustion. He scribbles on the pad and thrusts it towards me. ‘Hang on. But that’s more than you paid me for it,’ I say, willing the panic to subside.

  ‘That’s what it’s worth. If you remember, you gave me a discount because I paid you in cash,’ he says, sounding indifferent. I stare at him, unable to get my head around his logic.

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t give you a discount as such. You told me …’ I attempt to argue my case, but a slow cold trickle of realisation washes over me.

  ‘Now, if you want to buy it back for cash, then that’s different of course.’ He looks blankly, waiting for my response. I shake my head. This can’t be happening.

  ‘But I’m not sure the cards will cover that amount though,’ I say, in a hollow voice. I feel so foolish. The money I originally sold the necklace for just about managed to clear the store card and to take my credit cards back to zero.

  ‘You could finance the shortfall,’ he says, making it sound as though he’s doing me an enormous favour in ripping me off. Tears threaten, and my heart plummets. Not only am I back to square one, but I’m now worse off than I was in the first place and I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s worth it any more. I feel as if I’m drowning. I have to keep my job now, if only to stay afloat, so I nod my head. He scribbles on his pad again and pushes it towards me.

  ‘That’ll be twelve monthly payments.’

  I brace myself before glancing down at the page. Jesus. It’s almost as much as my car loan payments. The floor sways beneath me. I steady myself against the counter.

  ‘Looks like I don’t have a choice,’ I say, feeling sick and momentarily wondering what would happen if I reached across, grabbed the necklace and legged it as fast as I could. But it’s a ridiculous thought; I’m simply too exhausted even to reach across the desk, let alone run at any kind of speed.

  ‘Maybe you could get a bank loan,’ he offers, pretending to be helpful.

  ‘No, I have to have the necklace back today,’ I say, sharply, shuddering at the thought of what will happen to me if I don’t hand it over. So instead I grimace and bear it while he busies himself with the paperwork for the ludicrously extortionate loan, which is probably illegal anyway, but I just don’t have the time to argue with him.

  *

  After weaving through the traffic on my way to Brighton, I make it into the fast lane of the motorway and push down hard on the accelerator. My head flings back against the headrest, my heart is racing and I can’t seem to stop panicking. The dialogue in my head is driving me mad, over and over, there’s just no let-up. I might have cleared the arrears and missed-payment markers from my credit file, but my mountain of debt is even bigger now. Maybe I could sell the car, but then I remember the outstanding finance figure … it’s at least two grand more than the car is worth, I can’t even afford to do that. My hands are trembling on the steering wheel now and my chest is getting tight. I feel totally overwhelmed, as if everything is going to cave in on me. Tears sting in my eyes, I bite my bottom lip and take a deep breath, desperate for air, but it’s no use, I feel consumed with panic and I don’t feel safe.

  The ghastly image of my car careering into the crash barrier flashes before me, so I quickly indicate left and get myself over into the slow lane, before flicking the air con onto maximum. The icy cold breeze fans me, but my skin is still burning with trepidation. And Malikov must have got the necklace back by now. I can barely bring myself to contemplate what he will do to me. He’s bound to think I’ve double-crossed him. See it as a sign of indifference. I just don’t know any more, I can’t get a grip on reality.

  I pull over into a lay-by and, after switching off the engine, I glance around the car’s interior. Creamy-coloured soft leather with tan piping. The dashboard with chrome detailing, complete with matching steering wheel, just as I specified. At the time I thought it would make me feel happy, plug the gap left by losing Mum, and then Dad disappearing … but what use is it to me now? I feel trapped. Hot angry tears trickle down my face, slow at first, but fast now, and they won’t stop. My chest heaves, up and down, until I’m sobbing hysterically. I think of Dad and what he did to us, the similarities between his behaviour and mine recently. I should talk to him. Desperation changes people; I can see that now – maybe that’s why he did it. He never really explained, but then I never asked. I vow to call him at the first opportunity.

  Eventually, I manage to calm down, and after touching up my make-up, I force myself to get a grip. I make my way off the motorway and out into the countryside, and as green fields replace the hard urban concrete, the tension starts to ease slightly.

  *

  As I drag my wheelie suitcase across the car park towards the magnificent Regency-style beachfront hotel, I realise there’s nothing I can do right now to change anything, so I might as well try to enjoy the team-building event and put all my worries out of my head, if only for a little while. I’m in danger of driving myself insane otherwise.

  I walk through the grand entrance door and take a look around the hotel reception area. On every one of the surrounding armchairs and sofas there’s a Carrington’s employee. There must be about thirty people crammed into the room, some standing, the others elbow-to-elbow on the three padded window seats. Mrs Grace is sitting in a wing chair next to the real log fire, her knitting needles click-clacking away. Lauren is hovering by the bay window saying, ‘Mummy will see you tomorrow, now be a good boy for grandma’ into her mobile, and Betty is fanning herself with a drinks menu and mumbling something about ‘flaming hot flushes’. A couple of girls from Bedding turn up, closely followed by Suzanne from the cash office, looking fabulous in a midnight-blue maxi dress and chunky silver lace-up flatforms, with pregnant Emma from Stationery sipping from an Evian bottle while being all glowy and radiant.

  I spot Eddie perched on the edge of a corner unit sipping a can of Red Bull, and let out a small sigh of relief. I make my way over. He looks wired and his eyes are like saucers, flitting around the room.

  ‘Good to see you, Georgie Girl.’ It’s Ciaran, and he’s standing in the centre of the room, simulating a ‘lock and load’ action with an imaginary machine gun. A passing waitress throws him a look of disgust, so he drops to one knee to apologise profusely to her. I’ve not seen Ciaran as gregarious as this before. Eddie rolls his eyes, before moving along to let me sit down.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ I say, turning towards him.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ he replies sarcastically, before looking away.

  ‘Eddie, what is it?’ I ask, wondering why he’s acting strangely. It’s unlike him to be so cold. He turns his face to mine and studies me for a moment, as if he can’t make his mind up whether to say anything. I wait for him to tell me, but he just shrugs instead.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’

  �
��There is something, isn’t there?’ I ask, feeling uneasy.

  ‘No, honestly … I’m just thinking this is going to be a long weekend.’ He glares in Ciaran’s direction, but I’m not convinced. Oh God, maybe he knows something. Of course. He’s working for The Heff and Maxine now. He’s bound to know what she has in store for the ground floor.

  ‘Eddie, if you know anything, you would tell me, wouldn’t you … even if it was bad news?’ I ask, in a low voice.

  ‘Sure … but I don’t – stop being so paranoid.’ I manage a smile, but inside the feeling of unease is picking up speed again. I try to shove the worry from my head, but instead it just sits there gnawing away.

  I can feel Eddie’s thigh twitching against mine.

  ‘Are you sure everything’s OK?’ I turn to face Eddie, and he bites his lip.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ he snaps. ‘I need another drink.’ He jumps up and stalks off towards the bar. My heart sinks.

  ‘What’s going on with him?’ Ciaran throws himself down next to me.

  ‘I don’t know, but Eddie is really uptight, and it’s not like him,’ I reply. He must know something, I feel sure. The uneasy feeling threatens again.

  ‘Maybe the stress of working for that ballbuster Maxine is really getting to him,’ Ciaran says, sounding concerned.

  ‘Maybe,’ I reply, distractedly. I think about work … and James. God, I wish he was here, and then I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness that our friendship has been ruined by a romance that barely got off the starting blocks. Maybe there’s a chance to fix it when I get back. I cling on to this thought as Melissa the self-appointed organiser takes to the floor.

  ‘Now, if you could all be quiet for a second, you’ll see that on the front of the T-shirt is your name, but the important bit is on the back, that old adage that we all know and lurrrrrve …’ She pauses for a second and sticks her arms out, as if she’s about to start conducting an orchestra.