‘Actually there is something else …’ His voice trails off. He looks away.
‘Yes?’ I reply, eagerly, pushing my personal feelings about him to one side. He turns back and studies me for a moment.
‘It’s an associate of mine … but he doesn’t speak English so I will act on his behalf,’ he says as a statement.
‘Oh, OK. Do you know what he would like to buy?’ I hold my breath, hoping he wants a designer bag or three, or a nice set of luggage perhaps. A big sale to impress Maxine would be fantastic.
‘Gifts for his family in Moscow. He has seven sisters. Each with a penchant for quality goods.’ Malikov locks his eyes onto mine. Silence follows. ‘Chanel bags!’ he exclaims suddenly. ‘The most expensive ones.’ His eyes light up and my heart sinks. We don’t stock Chanel.
‘Yes the Chanel bags are very stylish, but I wonder if your friend has considered the Bottega range? I have eight of the Venetas,’ I say, knowing they’re still nestling in the stock cupboard. Way too pricey for our normal customers, and who can afford to pay thousands for a bag in any case?
‘Do they cost more?’
‘Oh yes, they’re very expensive, everyone wants one, but I’d be happy to reserve seven of them for your associate,’ I say, hoping to appeal to his sense of entitlement.
‘Let him have six,’ he smiles nastily, and I immediately feel sorry for the sister who will miss out. ‘I want the other two … for my wife and daughter.’
‘Wonderful,’ I say, forcing a smile.
‘And you will ship them? For the sisters.’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ I nod eagerly. This will get my section off to a good start with Maxine, and I can’t wait to tell James – hopefully his half of the sales commission will cheer him up. I know we’re in competition now, but Malikov was his customer originally so it’s only fair to share. ‘And I believe you were interested in the limited edition Chiavacci bags,’ I say, tentatively, steadying my voice from showing too much excitement as the car pulls up opposite Carrington’s.
‘Perhaps, but the boss would need to be here. Goodbye,’ he says, adjusting his hat. I shake his hand before stepping out of the car, and then realise that I’ve forgotten my bag. I quickly spin around to see it dangling on the end of his extended right index finger. As I lean back inside the car to retrieve it, Malikov’s eyes dart down towards my cleavage and he treats me to another leer.
I’m busy tweeting about my encounter with Malikov when I glance up to see Maxine push through the revolving doors at the front of the store. For some reason, I hesitate and hold back. And I’m glad I have because, as Maxine walks around to the side exit, James emerges from the loading bay.
I duck into a tiny alcove next to the betting shop, just in time to see them chatting. I swear James is laughing. Although it’s tricky to be sure, as Maxine is standing right in front of him, but still, he’s not snapping at her like he did with me just an hour or so ago. Maxine is rubbing his arm now and they look very cosy indeed. And oh my God, she’s hugging him. Her lips are pressed to his ear as if she’s whispering something illicit! Bound to be. My stomach lurches. I feel like an utter fool. I take a deep breath and turn away to study the odds for the upcoming football matches. When I turn back around to walk over to Carrington’s, James has gone and Maxine is sashaying towards me, her hair fanning all around her like the Greek goddess, Venus, or whatever. In my peripheral vision I spot a group of suits from a nearby estate agent’s office nudging each other as they gape in her direction. One of them winks and another shouts ‘oi oi’, but Maxine is oblivious; she has a cigarette in one hand and her mobile in the other, and it’s pressed to her ear.
‘Who was that?’ she asks, pulling the phone away and clutching it to her chest. She traces a question mark in the air with her cigarette.
‘Mr Malikov, he’s a customer,’ I tell her.
‘Nice car,’ she says, drawing in another lungful. She exhales through her nose and shakes her hair around for a bit. ‘Why doesn’t he come inside like everyone else?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, in future you need to let me know about every private customer and their personal shopping visits … preferably conducted within the personal shopping suite.’
‘OK, if you’re sure – it’s not something we normally do.’ My heart sinks at the prospect of being tracked like a Saturday girl on her first job.
‘I’m in charge now and I want things done properly. What if something had happened to you? Then where would we be?’ she says, flashing her pageant smile.
‘Quite. Point taken. I’ll be sure to tell you in future,’ I reply.
I push through the revolving doors and make my way to the staff lift. As the lift staggers through the floors I open my bag. And I don’t believe it. There, perched on top of my purse, is Malikov’s suede box. Oh my God, he must have slipped it in when I was getting out of the car. He sure as hell doesn’t take no for an answer.
On leaving the lift I make my way straight into the loo, and after checking the coast is clear I pull the box from my bag. As I push open the lid I let out an involuntary gasp that’s quickly followed by a hushed, ‘Wow.’ It’s a ruby necklace and it’s absolutely exquisite. I glance at the door before carefully lifting it from the box and holding it up to my neck.
As I lean across the sink to get a better look in the mirror, the gems glisten in the light. It’s irresistible, so I quickly fasten it around my neck, admiring the way the rubies skim my collarbone. I allow myself a moment of fantasy, imagining that I’m a Russian princess and that this necklace is just one of many pieces in my vast collection, when the door bursts open.
I dash into the nearest cubicle and hurriedly take the necklace off, placing it carefully back into the box before stowing it back into my handbag.
12
£7,786.91. OH MY ACTUAL GOD. The saliva drains from my mouth. It’s Monday morning. My day off. Wintry fresh sun is streaming through the slats of the white Venetian blind at my bedroom window and I’ve just finished tallying up my debts. I scan the spreadsheet again, desperately searching for an error. Surely it can’t be right. I highlight the amounts and press the Autosum button again, just in case, but it’s no use. The amount doesn’t change. Everything is there, even a store card I used to pay for the dress I wore to Sam’s birthday do, and the balance is now almost double what the dress cost in the first place. Another wave of nausea charges through me followed by a cold shiver of sweat. I reach over to the thick envelope containing the copy of my credit file. My hand is shaking but there’s no way out, I have to face it.
‘Bloody hell, what’s this?’ Sam yells, from the lounge.
‘What’s what?’ I yell back, my eyes scanning the report.
‘This necklace here on the coffee table. It’s divine.’
‘Oh, a customer gave it to me. I need to get it sent back to him,’ I shout back distractedly, eager to concentrate on the details in front of me. Sam stayed last night and we’re just about to head off to do some shopping. Or window shopping only, in my case.
I blink to refocus my eyes before taking another look. The paper trembles in my hands. All three of my credit cards have glaring late-payment markers against them, and one is even showing as having a missed payment. One of my store cards has an arrears marker too. I feel faint now.
I grab the phone handset from the bedside table to call the credit report company. I’ve got to find out what my options are in getting this mess tidied up. After tapping out the number I wait for a ring tone. Silence. I hang up and try again, and still the same thing. Damn phone, and there’s no dial tone. Then a woman’s voice comes onto the line and I realise I’ve come straight through to the phone company instead.
After taking me through security she announces, ‘I’m sorry, Madam, but your line has been disconnected for non-payment.’
‘Non-payment? I only switched over to you a little while ago. I haven’t even had a bill yet,’ I protest, wincing at the condescending �
��madam’ reference. I can feel the skin on my back prickling.
‘Well, the bills have been sent. Three in total, and since you haven’t responded to any of the requests for payment, your line has been disconnected,’ she says, in a bossy matter-of-fact voice.
‘But I haven’t had any bills, I’m sure of it,’ I plead. Surely there must be some kind of mistake. There’s a pause while I listen to her tapping on a keyboard.
‘Well, according to the system you’re on paperless billing so you would have been sent several email billing notifications.’ Well, that explains it. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. I even set up a folder in my inbox labelled ‘bills to be paid’, but I must have forgotten to actually pay them. My heart sinks. I feel like such a failure.
‘So how much is outstanding?’ I ask, delving into my bag to retrieve my purse. I pull out a credit card in anticipation.
‘Three hundred and fifty-nine pounds and sixty-eight pence.’ I open my mouth but for a moment the words don’t come out. My tongue feels as if it’s staple-gunned to the roof of my mouth.
‘Three hundred pounds?’ I stammer, feeling like an idiot as my brain works overtime to try and remember when I last paid the phone bill.
‘Three hundred and fifty-nine pounds and sixty-eight pence,’ she repeats, emphasising every single word, and I’m sure I detect a hint of smugness in her voice.
‘But I hardly ever use the phone at home, that can’t possibly be right,’ I reply.
‘That includes a reconnection fee of a hundred and a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound holding deposit against the next eighteen months’ billing period, on top of your bill for the previous two quarters.’
This is unbelievable.
‘So I have to give you an extra two hundred and fifty just to get my phone reconnected?’ My voice sounds tight and I feel like crying.
‘Yes. Would you like to pay now?’ she asks. I want to scream ‘of course I bloody well don’t’, but instead I read out the details from my credit card and wait while she processes it.
‘I’m sorry, Madam, but the payment has been declined. Do you have another card?’ My heart sinks, my cheeks burn with shame, and I feel dizzy as I pull out another credit card. I give her the details and then wait again, willing it to be OK as I imagine somebody at the credit card office spinning a giant roulette wheel.
‘Yes, that’s all fine now.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, my hands shaking as I hang up. Everything is far from being fine. I take a gulp of air that catches in my throat. Sam taps on the half-open bedroom door. I quickly shove the credit report into my handbag before tugging at the door handle. I’ll have to call them later.
‘Are we still going shopping?’ she beams at me, after I pull the door wide open. ‘Only I thought I could wear this,’ she guffaws, holding Malikov’s necklace up to her neck.
‘Sure,’ I say, with a half-smile, as I try and forget about the credit report and the phone bill fiasco. Sam and I have never actually discussed money. Of course she knows we’re in totally different leagues, but somehow it’s always seemed like a taboo subject between us.
‘I think these gems are real and probably worth a bit,’ she says, scrutinising the necklace. ‘I know – let’s get it valued.’ Making big pleading eyes at me, she tries to make it sound as though the idea has just popped into her head. ‘I’m dying to know how much it’s worth,’ she says, hopping from one foot to the other, barely able to contain her excitement.
‘I can’t, it was a present from a customer. And we’re not allowed to accept gifts.’
‘Oh how exciting. Tell me about him, is he hot?’
‘Hardly, he’s a middle-aged Russian, with eyes like a piranha,’ I say, shuddering inwardly at the memory.
‘Ew.’ She wrinkles her nose, and I can’t help smiling.
‘Anyway, it’s going back,’ I say, shaking my head, and feeling like a party pooper when a crestfallen look appears across her face.
‘Oh come on, who’s to know? And besides, it was a present, so you can do what you like with it,’ she says, skipping through to the bathroom. After flicking the light on she bounces up onto the loo seat and holds the necklace up to the light so she can scrutinise it again. ‘Yes, I’m sure of it. See here …’ She pushes the necklace towards me, pointing to the largest ruby. ‘The colour is so intense,’ she says, knowingly.
‘I’ll have to take your word for it,’ I reply, not ever having owned an expensive piece of jewellery.
‘Aren’t you curious? Oh come on, it’ll be a laugh. We could pop over to Jessop Street – there’re loads of jewellers around that part of town,’ she pleads, and I can’t help smiling at her enthusiasm.
‘Sorry, I can’t. Like I said, I have to return it.’
‘So how come you’ve got it then?’
‘He put it in my bag when I wasn’t looking.’
‘Well there you go … you didn’t accept it so you don’t have to return it.’ She laughs and lets the necklace trickle through her fingers as she drops it back into the box.
*
We’ve been sitting in the little office at the back of the musty old jeweller’s shop for almost twenty minutes.
‘I haven’t seen stones like these for some time. Eastern European, are they?’ The wiry old jeweller lets his loupe fall down from his eye into the palm of his hand before peering back up.
‘Err, I think so.’ I can’t believe I’m even doing this.
‘Yes, it’s from Russia,’ Sam says, nudging me under the table with her thigh, ‘… with love!’ I pull a ‘stop it’ face at her. ‘So what do you think then?’ She fixes her baby-blue eyes on the jeweller’s watery ones. He hunches his scrawny shoulders further over the table.
‘Is it for insurance purposes, or resale?’ Silence follows. The jeweller looks up and I glance at Sam.
‘Nei—’ I start, but Sam nudges my leg again, and with my mouth still open I turn my body towards her.
‘Actually, it’s for insurance,’ Sam says, knowingly. ‘You silly thing,’ she pats my arm, trying to look authentic, ‘you can’t keep it uninsured.’
The jeweller pulls out a little pad and scribbles on it before turning it around to show us. I stare at the figure. Oh my God. I can’t believe it. My pulse quickens.
‘See, I told you didn’t I?’ Sam says, smugly. Then turning back to the jeweller she adds, ‘A generous … err, friend, gave it to her.’
‘Very generous indeed,’ the jeweller replies, eyeing me as I peer again at the figure. Oh my God, what I could do with that money. I quickly shove the thought out of my head and reach across to the box. The jeweller drops the necklace back inside and I close the lid down on it.
‘Thank you for your time, but we really need to get going,’ I say, briskly, before pushing the chair back and shaking the jeweller’s hand. I turn to leave, and Sam follows along behind me.
As soon as we’re outside, Sam is beside herself with glee.
‘Didn’t I tell you? How exciting,’ she says, pulling her sunglasses down over her forehead to protect her face from the dazzling wintry sun. ‘Are you sure about the piranha eyes? I mean, you could always make him close them … if you ever wanted to get jiggy with him.’ She laughs out loud.
‘Yuk. Stop it.’
‘Ohmigod.’ She stops walking and clutches my arm. ‘Imagine what else he might give you … for a Valentine’s present,’ she gushes, and I pull a face.
‘Please just stop it. He’s vile, not my type at all. In any case, I can look after myself,’ I say, a little too abruptly as I remember the glaring total on the spreadsheet, realising the mess I’ve actually made of it so far. My mind is working overtime as I rummage through my shopping tote searching for my sunglasses.
‘Hey, come on. I was only joking,’ Sam replies, placing a hand on my back.
‘I know, and I’m sorry. I’m just a bit tetchy with everything that’s going on at work.’
‘Oh well, plenty more piranhas in the sea �
� boom boom.’ Sam laughs at her own joke and gently elbows me in the ribs. I slip my arm through hers, and as we head off all I can think of is the figure on the paper. And resale! The word goes over and over in my head like an annoying jingle I can’t evict.
13
‘I knew you’d be back.’
‘Oh. How come?’ I ask, fiddling nervously with my sunglasses as the jeweller holds the shop door open for me.
‘I just know the look. The look when the client realises just how much money they can have instead of a piece of jewellery they’ll probably never wear. From a gentleman friend, was it?’
‘Something like that,’ I mutter.
‘Of course, and may I reassure you that discretion is guaranteed. It happens all the time; they think they know what you like and—’
‘Indeed,’ I say, not wanting to engage him further in the details. I went through the motions with Sam, but it was no use. I have to do something to get my credit file back in order, not just to give myself the best possible chance of keeping my job, but because I can’t take any more sleepless nights worrying about it all. So I left Sam in a quirky boutique over near the market square in the centre of town and made my way back here.
After handing the jeweller the suede box, he quickly slots his loupe into place and gives it another once-over. Satisfied that it’s the same item, he scuttles off out to the back before returning with an A4-size double cheque book.
‘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.
Cupcakes at Carrington’s (Carringtons Department Store 1) Page 10