Normally, my scrummy Madagascar cures all ills, but currently it isn’t helping to quell my nerves. I am, however, committing sacrilege by washing it down with a cup of tea. That’s not hitting the spot either. “There’s no way we can let this guy get away with extortion,” I say grumpily.
“I’m going to struggle to get the money for him in the timescale he’s demanding,” Chantal admits. “Maybe Lucy’s right. Perhaps we do have to try this.”
“Has he contacted you again?”
“This morning,” she says. “I managed to stall him, but I think I’m running out of time.”
We’re even beginning to talk like heist masters. One of us will soon be saying, “Hang him on a meat hook!” in the style of Vinnie Jones. We all look around at each other nervously.
“Is this actually legal?” Autumn asks in a whisper.
“We’re only taking back what belongs to Chantal,” I say with a conviction that I don’t necessarily feel. Perhaps our methodology treads a fine line. “I can’t think of any other way.”
“I’m in,” Nadia says. “When are we going to do it?”
“As soon as possible.” I look at Chantal for confirmation. She nods.
“I’ll need plenty of warning as I’ll have to make sure that Toby can look after Lewis. I don’t want the extra expense of a babysitter if I can avoid it,” Nadia tells us.
George Clooney never had these problems. Did he ever have his heist foiled because one of his Ocean’s Eleven gang couldn’t get a babysitter? I think not.
“Are you okay with your role?” I ask Autumn.
Her eyes are wide with fear. “I’ll do it,” she says. “For Chantal.”
“Why are we going out into the countryside to do this?” Nadia wants to know.
“I thought it would be better off our own patch.” Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels…speak again. “Neutral territory.” Though, come to think of it, I’m not sure why we are going all that way. Could we do this closer to home? Quite probably. But I won’t mention it now though, as they might start to doubt the validity of the rest of my cunning plan.
“This is a lovely hotel,” Nadia says as she glances at the name of the venue. “Toby and I got the brochure a few years ago. We thought we might have a few days there for our anniversary, but it was so expensive. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
We all give her a look.
“Sorry,” she says. “This isn’t a picnic. I know that.”
“We’ll need some sleeping tablets too,” I say, thinking out loud.
“I can supply those,” Nadia says, and we all swivel our eyes in her direction, wondering what our friend is doing with a stash of sleeping tablets. I thought it would be Autumn who’d have access to the drugs. “How many do you need?”
“How many does it take to drug a conman?” I realize that this might be an inexact science.
“We don’t want to kill him,” Autumn interjects anxiously.
“I do,” Chantal says bluntly.
“Tell me the name of the tablets,” Autumn says. “I’ll ask Richard for his advice. He knows all there is to know about prescription drugs as well as illegal ones.” I knew her contacts would prove invaluable.
“Do you think the boys will be up for this?” I cast a surreptitious glance in the direction of Clive and Tristan.
“We can only ask,” Chantal says. “Hey, guys,” she calls over. “Wanna be involved in a robbery?”
Laughing, the guys then come over to sit with us, bringing a bottle of chocolate vodka and half a dozen shot glasses which they proceed to hand around. The smiles fade from their faces as they realize we are, indeed, planning “a job” and that they’re required to be part of it. Six shots of chocolate vodka later and, surprisingly, they both agree.
“Call him,” I instruct Chantal—also fortified by the vodka. “Call the bastard. Fix up the meet. Tell him to book a room as you don’t want to do the exchange in a public area.”
“Are you sure?” she says.
“It’s our only chance.”
Chantal takes a deep breath and flicks up a number on her mobile phone. We all lean in toward her, straining to hear the conversation. “It’s Chantal. We’ll meet at the Trington Manor Hotel,” she tells him without preamble. “You know it? Fine.” Our friend also sounds a little slurry. “Friday, nine o’clock. Book a room. I want to make sure we do the exchange in private.”
“It’s on,” she says when she hangs up. Then she downs some more vodka.
“Friday, nine o’clock,” I repeat, and we all nod in agreement. “We’ll meet up here after work. It’ll take us a couple of hours to drive there.” Chantal is the designated driver, seeing as she has the poshest car. And Autumn and I don’t actually have cars at all. Doing a heist on a bike just isn’t the ticket. So that’s it. We’re sorted.
Clive pours us all another shot. We click our glasses together. And, despite the fact that I realize it doesn’t have quite the same ring as Ocean’s Eleven does, I say loudly, “To the Chocolate Lovers’ Club Four!”
Chapter Forty-two
MYNEW AGENCY—OFFICE ANGELS—has fixed me up with another job. This one is great. I’m working for a trendy designer with her own small fashion house in Covent Garden. Is that not cool? This is definitely more me than fusty old bookshops and sterile computer companies. I’ve been here for two days already and I haven’t broken a thing. Really. All the mannequins in the showroom are still wearing their ten grand evening gowns as they should be. None of the gowns are ripped. None of the models have lost arms, or other body parts, inappropriately. The floor is highly polished oak and I haven’t fallen over on my backside yet in the style of a circus clown. I think this really could be a turning point for me.
The designer’s called Floella and she’s a tiny Jamaican woman with a wicked temper and a penchant for Jimmy Choo shoes. She’s just starting to make her mark on the fashion world and is now dressing a smattering of A-list celebrities. Already, I’ve whipped her filing cabinet into shape and have booked in an array of appointments for clients who want fittings for couture gowns. I know exactly how she likes her decaffeinated coffee—three drops of soy milk and a grain of sugar in the morning; unadulterated black in the afternoon. In making myself completely indispensable, I hope that she’ll keep me on as a temp or even elevate me to the position of permanent staff
Today, however, my mind is on other things. Tonight is the night of Operation Liberate Chantal’s Jewelry and my nerves are already making me jittery. I’ve drunk about ten cups of nondecaf coffee and I’ve eaten the equivalent number of chocolate bars from my rapidly dwindling stash—taking great care not to get any chocy fingerprints or smudges on the evening dresses or on the bolts of fabric in the cutting room, of course.
“Lucy,” Floella says into my daydream. “You need to drive these dresses to the Landmark Hotel for the fashion show later today.”
Drive? Me? Is this in my job description?
“I’ll give you a hand to load up the van.”
Van? I have passed a test to say that I can drive, but that was many, many moons ago. And it was in a car. Does she not realize that it’s about five years since I’ve driven anything and I’ve never, ever been in control of anything anywhere near as substantial as a van? Clearly not. Living in London has meant that—like everyone else—I go everywhere by bus or Tube. What shall I do? I can’t really fess up at this late stage that I’m not really au fait with this driving lark. Floella might pack me off back to Office Angels without a qualm. There’s no choice. I have to do this.
With a feeling of impending doom, I go out to the back of the premises—somewhere that I’ve not yet had to explore—and there is a big— humongously big—white van. Oh good. I’m about to become white van woman. But part of my being indispensable means that I mustn’t protest, so, alongside Floella, I load up a heap of dresses. They’re all wrapped in tissue and plastic and we put them on specially designed rails in the van. The very big van.
“Take your time,” Floella says, perhaps sensing how nervous I am. “My assistant, Cassie, is already at the hotel. I’ll call her to say you’re on your way.”
“Right.”
Then she disappears back into the shop and leaves me at the mercy of the van. I climb in. My goodness. It feels more like a pantechnicon, sitting up here in the cab. I sit there trying to fathom how everything works, until I can put off my departure no longer. This looks a bit more tricky than the Vaux-hall Corsa in which I had my last motorized outing. My hands shake as I jam the thing into gear and, very tentatively, ease it out into the back street behind the shop, trying very hard not to scrape it on the brick walls that are hemming me in on either side. Already my face is hot and my armpits are attractively sweaty.
I swing out into the London traffic and make my way toward the Landmark Hotel, letting all the cars weave around me while I keep a steady course. I don’t swear—well, except to myself under my breath—I just maintain a death grip on the steering wheel and make slow progress toward my destination. By the time I’ve reached New Oxford Street, I’m actually starting to relax. My back isn’t quite so ramrod straight and my knuckles have an element of blood in them once again. When I turn into Tottenham Court Road I take my eyes from the road, only momentarily and someone walking along the pavement ahead of me catches my eye. It’s Jacob. He’s striding down the street, attaché case in hand, slipping through the crowd. And then I remember that I’m supposed to be going to a charity do with him tonight—it could even be the one that I’m delivering the dresses to. I’d completely forgotten! In my haste to organize the jewelry heist, my hot date had gone right out of my mind. How could I have forgotten this? Am I mad?
Stopping at a pedestrian crossing, I watch as Jacob approaches. This would be the ideal opportunity to cancel my date and explain my predicament, although I realize that I can’t really tell him that I’m masterminding a robbery instead of attending a charity event with him. What would he think of me? I try to wind down the window, but I can’t work out how to get the passenger side down. The driver’s window opens as I press all the buttons, even though that wasn’t what I intended. Nevertheless, I shout out of it: “Jacob! Jacob!”
Oblivious. I could ring him, but I don’t want to get nicked for using my mobile phone while driving. The lights on the pedestrian crossing change to green and the traffic behind me starts to show its impatience with a cacophony of hooting horns. I start to move away, but then decide that I really do need to catch up with Jacob now. What if I can’t get hold of him this afternoon? He’ll think that I’m terrible. Decision made, I slam on the brakes and slew the van to the side of the road. But then there’s an almighty crash and the van is shunted forward from behind. “Oh, bugger!”
The hooting starts afresh. I jump out of the cab and rush toward the back of the van. Another identical white van is embedded deeply into the back of it. His bumper looks relatively undamaged, whereas my van is distinctly crumpled. The back doors have broken open and are both smashed in. There are two guys in the other van; they’ve both jumped out into the road and one is ranting at me.
“Can’t you look where you’re going, darlin’!” he says. “Fuckin’ idiot!”
Jacob is walking past. He hasn’t given our little accident another glance.
“One second,” I say to the guy. “One second. I’ll be back in just a jiffy.”
I leave him openmouthed while I sprint after Jacob, shouting at the top of my voice: “Jacob!” We can sort out the insurance details when I get back—this is far more important. The guy drove into me, it’s clearly his fault. “Jacob!” Is the bloke deaf? Has he got an iPod on? Whatever the reason, he doesn’t turn to acknowledge me.
Instead, he swings into the reception of a big hotel. I chase after him, having to wait for a party of businessmen coming out of the revolving door before pushing through and into the hotel. Inside, there’s no sign of Jacob. I scour the seated groups of men in reception, but he isn’t in any of them. Then I see him, crossing toward the lifts, and I shout out, “Jacob!”
He looks up and seems startled when he sees me, as well he might. There’s another handsome young man with him. He’s tall and dark, wearing a beautifully cut pin-striped suit.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say breathlessly. “I’ve just had an accident. When I saw you passing, I jumped out of my van.”
“Accident? Van?” Jacob says. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. The van’s a bit dented.” A lot dented. “It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. My eyes fall on the other guy. What a stunner. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re going to a meeting. I don’t mean to keep you.”
“No worries,” Jacob replies, but I see him glance apologetically at the other man.
“Could I have a quick word?”
He looks at the guy for approval. The man nods, rather curtly, as he checks his watch. Jacob steps away from him and takes me by the elbow until we are out of earshot.
“I can’t make tonight,” I tell him. “I’m really, really sorry. I have something else planned.”
“Oh.” He looks genuinely disappointed.
“I feel dreadful,” I babble on. “If I could cancel this, then I would. But I’d be letting my friends down.”
“I understand,” Jacob says.
“What about the rest of the weekend?” I ask. “Maybe we can meet up then. I’m free.”
“I’m busy,” he says with a rueful smile and I can’t tell if he’s spinning me a line. Does he think that I’m cooling off on him? That’s certainly not the case.
“We could do something during the week.” I’m sounding desperate and I don’t want to.
“I have to work most evenings.”
Most evenings, but not all of them. I don’t know what else to suggest.
“Tuesday,” he says, coming to my rescue. “I have a couple of hours around six. Do you want to meet after work at Chocolate Heaven?”
“Yes,” I say, pouncing on what seems to be my one chance. Bang goes my yoga class again. “Tuesday’s fine.”
Jacob’s colleague over by the lift is fidgeting overtly. “I have to go,” he says. “We have clients waiting.”
“See you, then.” I lift a hand and wave at his disappearing back.
I dash out of the hotel and sprint down the road. When I get to the end, I can only see one van. Bugger! The bastards have driven off They had better have put their insurance details under my windscreen wiper or something. Damn. I never thought about them doing this. You can’t trust anyone these days. What am I going to tell Floella? How can I explain the crump in the back of her van? Will she take it better than Mr. Jesmond did the dramatic rearranging of his shop? No. She’ll more than likely have a fit with one of her Jimmy Choo-ed feet in the air.
The doors at the back are flung open and I’m probably going to have to find something to try to tie them together as I can’t drive along with them flapping apart like that. I tut. This is not turning out to be a good day. I hope that tonight’s festivities go a bit better than this has done. If bad luck comes in threes then I still have one more calamity on its way.
When I look into the back of the van, I realize what that calamity is. All of Floella’s couture evening gowns have gone walkies. There’s not a single one left. The back of the van is a cavernous maw. The guys who crashed into me must have decided to help themselves to the dresses. Here’s me thinking about my very own heist and, in the meantime, I’ve become the victim of one. I stare at the empty space and wonder what on earth I’m going to do now. Floella is not going to like this. She’s not going to like it at all.
Feeling stunned, I walk to the front of the van. Then I see that there’s a piece of paper under one of the windscreen wipers. My spirits lift. Perhaps the guys have left a contact address after all. Perhaps there’s a perfectly valid reason why all the dresses are missing. Perhaps they’ve taken them somewhere for safekeeping. I pull the paper out with trembling hands. It’s a parking ticket. A bl
oody, bloody, bastardy parking ticket. That’s four bits of bad luck in one day. Surely that’s my quota filled. Then I realize that I’ve kissed another job good-bye—this time a great one—and my tally racks up to five.
Chapter Forty-three
“SO THIS IS YOUR LITTLE empire?” Richard said. He didn’t sound impressed.
“Yes.” Autumn had somehow managed to persuade her brother to come into the drug rehabilitation center and find out a bit more about the KICK IT! program she was involved in. With luck, it might make him want to KICK IT! himself. Autumn had arranged for him to drop into a class so that he could meet some of their clients too. It was politically incorrect to call them kids, even though that’s what they all were. Damaged, messed-up kids. She thought that by bringing her brother in here, letting him get to know some of the kids whose lives had been blighted by their addiction, then it might well bring him back down to earth with a bump. He would see the end product of the harsh reality of drugs, rather than the glamorous images of cocaine that existed in the media world and in which he seemed fervently to believe.
“What a dreary place,” he said, turning his nose up at the flaking paint on the walls. “I’d want to take more drugs if I was forced to spend my days in a hellhole like this.”
It was true that the accommodation for the center was more utilitarian than attractive. The Stolford Centre was never destined to win any design awards. It was housed in an old red-brick school, built in the 1930s and now crumbling nicely. A substantial part of their budget was spent in simply keeping the place from falling apart. But the rooms were large and well lit, even though the central heating was clonky and the original wooden floors were pitted and dirty with age.
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