Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s (19 page)

‘I’m serious, not anyone,’ I say, searching his eyes for reassurance.

‘Georgie please, you’re scaring me now. What is it? I give you my word that I won’t breathe a word to another living soul. Not ever! Now please tell me, if you think it will help. But you don’t have to … you know that, don’t you? I’m happy to fuss you and remain oblivious of whatever dastardly deed it is you’ve committed.’

‘I know. And thank you.’ My eyes well up at his kindness.

‘I’ve been seeing someone.’

‘OK,’ he starts, slowly. ‘Do you want to tell me who? Although I’m pretty sure I can guess.’ I blink at him. Silence follows. ‘It’s James, isn’t it?’

I bite my lip and nod.

‘How do you know?’ I ask, suddenly worried that everyone in the store will have noticed what was going on.

‘Honey pie, I know you and, well, I’ve seen the way you two are with each other. Surely it’s a good thing you finally managed to get it together,’ he says, gently.

‘Well yes, it was fun. At least it was until I managed to completely blow it. He thinks I deliberately stole
sales commission from Malikov, instead of sharing it like
we normally do. You know, as part of this horrendous recession-
busting revamp thing.’ Eddie raises an enquiring eyebrow. ‘I meant to tell him, but with Malikov not taking his calls …’ My voice trails off. I know it’s a poor excuse. But I can’t say anything about the necklace and how distracted I was – no matter how strong our friendship is, I just can’t put Eddie in that position, not when he’s The Heff’s BA. He’d be in trouble too … if it ever came out that he knew and didn’t report me. ‘This damn revamp is ruining everything,’ I add, quickly. ‘He was so furious and then I lost it and accused him of bitching to Maxine about me. He knows about Dad too … and well, it’s over.’

‘Well, that explains it, sugar.’ I turn to look at him.

‘What do you mean?’ I could hug him for not judging me.

‘James has pulled out of the team-building weekend. Personal reasons apparently.’ I feel crushed. I’d been clinging on to the thought that I might just be able to salvage something of our relationship over the weekend away, explain properly that I really had meant to share the commission.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Eddie puts an arm around my shoulders and I lean into him, grateful for a moment of comfort, ‘I’m sure he’ll come around. He’s a nice guy, probably just overreacting after the way Rebecca did the dirty on him. He’s bound to be a bit sensitive for a while.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I should try and talk to him. You know, apologise or something.’

‘Could do. But wait until after the weekend and see how you feel then.’

We turn the corner and I open my mouth to reply, but instead we both stop short. Eddie drops his arm from my shoulders. Maxine and Tom are just up ahead of us at the end of the long corridor, and she has her right arm linked through his and her body practically wrapped around his. Her left hand is stroking his chest. The pair of them look very cosy indeed. Rooted to the spot, neither of us moves. Eddie clutches my arm. We wait until they disappear inside one of the stock rooms, the door of which Maxine kicks shut behind them with the spike of her Loub.

‘Did you see that?’ I feel strangely satisfied that I’ve actually witnessed it now with my own eyes, although it doesn’t quite account for the horrible sinking sensation that follows.

‘Yes, very clandestine,’ Eddie sniffs. I feel totally played. I don’t stand a chance of keeping my job when Maxine is in bed with Tom. And most likely James too, for all I know.

*

When I get back to the shop floor, James is back. He looks straight through me as I walk past and I feel like such a fool as the weak smile that I managed to coax onto my face in preparation for seeing him withers away. I make it to my counter and Annie gives me a memo from upstairs, saying Malikov’s associate still hasn’t produced photo ID and address verification so, unless he does, he can’t buy the Bottega bags … the sale is way over the £9,000 limit for one customer transaction. I pick up the phone to call him.

‘Mr Malikov is unavailable,’ a growly voice says. ‘I am his –’ there’s a pause – ‘personal assistant.’

‘OK, this is Georgie Hart calling from Carr—’

‘He is not available,’ the growly voice interrupts.

‘Yes, you said,’ I reply, tightly. I’m not in the mood for this.

‘I will take a message.’

I hesitate, quickly weighing up what to say.

‘Please tell him that it won’t be possible to accommodate the request discussed at our last meeting, and would he kindly let his associate know. It’s just that his associate doesn’t spea—’

‘Yes, he will tell him. Goodbye.’ The line goes dead. I mutter ‘English’ to myself, before hanging up.

After flogging some Cath Kidston gear to a group of Chinese tourists, it’s my lunch break. Deciding on some comfort food to cheer myself up, I make my way to the café. I’m in the queue with a large mug of squirty-cream-topped hot chocolate and two red velvet cupcakes on my tray, when I spot Tom and Maxine further up ahead at the till. Maxine grabs a carton of coconut juice from their shared tray and breezes back past the queue towards the exit. As she passes me she stops short and suddenly turns around to face me. After casting a disparaging glance at my tray, she treats me to her pageant smile and does a big hair shake before breezing off.

Tears threaten again, but I quickly start counting backwards from twenty in my head, an old trick Mum told me about when the school bullies were at their worst. I reach the till and forage in my bag for my purse, wishing again that everything could just go back to how it used to be.

‘I’ve changed my mind on these,’ I mumble to Stacey, pointing to the cakes.

‘Sure.’ She’s just about to take the plate away when Sam appears.

‘It’s OK Stace. You can go on your break now. I’ll take over.’

‘Thanks Sam.’ Stacey disappears and Sam leans around the till with a concerned look on her face.

‘You OK?’ she whispers.

‘I’m fine.’

‘No you’re not. Now get off your proverbial spike and tell me what’s up?’ Sam smiles kindly.

‘I’ve just lost a really big sale, James is still ignoring me and Maxine is playing me for a mug … so, all in all …’ I say, keeping my voice low as I desperately try to stop my bottom lip from trembling. I fiddle with my purse.

‘Shush,’ Sam puts her hand over mine. ‘My treat, sounds like you need them, put your purse away,’ she says in a way that makes me feel as if I might cry again.

‘Thank you,’ I mouth.

I’ve just sat down at the only free table in the far corner of the packed café when Tom appears.

‘Mind if I join you?’ he says, tilting his head and, in spite of myself, and what I saw earlier in the corridor, and everything else that’s going on, my tummy actually flips as I look up at him towering over me, his eyes sparkling and messy dark curls falling into chocolate-brown eyes. He’s so incredibly hot and smells amazing. I have to force myself to get a grip.

‘If you must,’ I say, too sharply, and he hesitates. ‘Look sorry, of course you can,’ I mutter quickly, feeling ashamed that I’m adding rudeness to my list of unattractive traits these days.

‘Bad day?’ Tom says, sitting down opposite me and pushing his hair away from his face. Then, stirring his espresso, he looks directly at me, waiting for my answer.

‘Bad life more like,’ I say dramatically, ripping a chunk of cupcake and shoving it into my mouth.

‘What’s happened?’ he asks gently, leaning across the table and creasing his forehead in concern. I swallow and slurp at a teaspoonful of hot chocolate.

‘I don’t really want to talk about it,’ I reply, averting my eyes from his. I bet he already knows about the Malikov bags and Maxine’s bound to have told him that I ‘stole’ the sales commission from James. That’s what lovers do – tell each other stuff. No wonder James is so furious with me.

‘Well, if you change your mind, please just let me know … I’m a good listener,’ he says in a low voice. He smiles again and for a moment I waver. I must say he’s very good. He really does seem genuinely interested and caring. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. I don’t know, my judgement is all over the place at the moment. I quickly pull myself together and look away. All part of their ruse, no doubt. Maxine’s probably told him to work his charm on me in an attempt to wheedle out some misdemeanour she can use against me to cover her tracks when she lets him stay and sacks me. She’ll have to find some excuse, because my section is still the most profitable. Maybe Tom will even end up running that too; she did say she would be seeing what merch stays and who was best to sell it, and from what I’ve seen, it’s blooming obvious he’s the favourite. I grab the mug of hot chocolate and stand up.

‘Bye,’ I say abruptly, before heading off. Tom looks up at me and there’s a shadow of dismay in his eyes, but I force myself to ignore it.

B
ack 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.