Carrington’s at Christmas: The Complete Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s, Ice Creams at Carrington’s. Alexandra Brown
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‘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.
23
Back 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