Cupcakes at Carrington’s. Alexandra Brown

      4

      ‘So what will you spend your share of the commission on, Georgie?’ James asks, turning to face me.

      ‘Not sure,’ I say, knowing it’ll go towards the gas bill. ‘What about you?’

      ‘Oh, it’s got to be a weekend away. I was thinking a few days lazing in the sun. What do you think?’ He flashes a smile at me, and I allow myself a momentary fantasy that he’s actually inviting me to join him.

      ‘Mmm, I could do with a break. A nice hotel with a pool.’ I grin, enjoying the relief the fantasy brings and forgetting my cash-flow problems for a moment.

      ‘Yes. Now you’re talking. When shall we go?’ he jokes, and we both laugh. ‘Now, getting back to Malikov, from what his “people” said, he’s prepared to buy a lot of merch, but only if he gets a “super deal”, as he calls it.’

      ‘In other words he wants to feel as though he’s got a bargain?’ I say.

      James nods. ‘Indeed. But, as you know, we only have a very small margin for manoeuvre on the sales price.’

      ‘Leave him to me. I’m sure I can make him see what a bargain he’ll be getting.’ I smile, relishing the prospect. James shakes his head. He looks amused.

      ‘So what have you managed to find out about him?’ he asks, flipping his cricket club tie over and under until it’s knotted perfectly. James has a passion for the sport, which is handy given that he runs Men’s Accessories incorporating a little Sportswear section too. And as bowler for the Mulberry-On-Sea First XI team, he spends every Sunday up on the grassy common being admired by the WI ladies who ply him with cucumber sandwiches and cream teas. I remember seeing him in his cricket whites once when he changed into them before leaving work, and it was true he looked pretty adorable.

      ‘Well, obviously Malikov’s wealthy. Loves to take a risk; he supposedly sustained a gunshot wound to his right leg during military service, but there’s speculation about the authenticity of that claim, according to his Wikipedia profile. He’s just returned from his first voyage aboard his yacht, named He Who Dares, complete with Baccarat crystal bar and splash-proof karaoke platform, I might add.’ I pause to catch my breath. ‘Oh, and according to one particularly scathing Wall Street Journal article, he’s desperate to gain recognition and respect here in the UK, apparently. Trying to join just about every private members’ club there is.’

      ‘Is he? But seriously, karaoke?’ James says, shaking his head. ‘Not sure that’s the way to go.’

      ‘Apparently his third wife, Natalya, is the karaoke queen, or is she one of his girlfriends? Mmm … I can’t remember now,’ I say. He smiles at me again. Feeling awkward, I busy myself by fiddling with my name badge and straightening my top down. He clears his throat just as we reach our floor and simultaneously my phone vibrates. Without thinking, I grab it from my pocket and answer, not even bothering to look at the screen, just grateful for the perfect timing.

      ‘Hello?’ I glance at James and pull a sorry face, but as soon as I hear the voice on the other end of the phone, my heart plummets like a bungee jumper from a crane.

      ‘Hi darling.’ It’s Dad. My head spins. I should have known better than to answer it. I’m usually so careful with withheld numbers. I turn away, desperate to create some privacy. I contemplate hanging up, when thankfully James nods his head towards the Gents loo to indicate a pit stop and disappears inside.

      ‘I told you not to call me at work,’ I say, in a low voice, feeling my cheeks warming again as I huddle into the corridor wall.

      ‘I just wanted to know how you are. It’s been such a long time …’ I swallow hard, remembering when I last spoke to him. The strained conversation and the falseness, just because it was his birthday and I felt sorry for him being all alone. But then it’s his own fault, I quickly remind myself.

      ‘Dad, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk now.’ I snap the phone shut, vowing to be more careful next time it rings.

      ‘You OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ James says softly, when he reappears.

      ‘Oh, yes I’m fine,’ I mutter, doing my best to recover.

      ‘You know if you don’t feel up to this I can always do the fawning by myself. You work twice as hard as the other sales assistants.’ The way he talks, so kindly, makes tears prick at my eyes. I study the pattern on the carpet and swallow hard before glancing back at him.

      ‘I’m fine. But thanks for your consideration.’ The shock of Dad’s voice perforating my work day slowly subsides.

      ‘If you’re sure?’

      ‘I’m sure,’ I say, managing a weak smile.

      ‘OK, so we know that Malikov likes his toys then,’ he says in a low voice, thoughtfully bringing us back on topic.

      We reach the personal shopping suite and James pushes through the creamy white padded door into the little anteroom that smells of lilies and expensive perfume.

      ‘OK, you ready for this?’ he whispers while checking his cufflinks. I nod. ‘Great – knew I could count on you,’ he says, enthusiastically, and I smile at his praise.

      Inside, and standing by the floor-to-ceiling chiffon-covered window is a sturdy-looking man yelling Russian into a hands-free mobile phone. As we walk towards him he snatches the earpiece away and tosses it towards the three enormous men wedged on a cream leather sofa, all wearing identical black suits. The one on the end performs a sudden pincer movement to successfully catch the earpiece. James dashes over to greet our customer.

      ‘Mr Malikov, welcome to Carrington’s.’

      Ignoring James’s outstretched hand, he commands, ‘Let’s shop,’ in a gravelly voice that has an American-English accent. He’s dressed casually in chinos with a navy blazer over a canary-yellow polo shirt with a ridiculous paisley cravat. He limps towards the enormous overstuffed circular sofa in the centre of the room, slumps down and rests both hands on a carved, tiger-headed cane that has a ruby the size of a plum wedged inside the tiger’s roaring mouth. Lifting his wrist, he squints at a platinum jewelled watch. ‘I have twenty minutes before I leave for the opera. Do you like opera?’ he barks. James and I exchange glances. Twenty minutes! We better get on with it if we’re to stand any chance of securing a big sale and earning some much-needed commission.

      ‘Well, sailing is my thing,’ James replies, calmly, as though he has all the time in the world. I smile inwardly, knowing how he hates water, preferring his beloved cricket to anything that might involve