Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s. Alexandra Brown
or anything. Probably just thinks it makes him look exclusive or something.
‘I don’t know, something about a late lunch en route to the airport.’ Eddie nudges me. ‘Hubba hubba,’ he laughs, and I swat him on the arm.
‘Stop it, you’re revolting.’ A shiver of panic courses through me at the prospect of being alone with Malikov.
‘You’d better watch out.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, before you know it he’ll have you drenched in Shalimar and spread-eagled across his leatherette waterbed while he sucks on a Monte Cristo and asks you to call him Daddy.’
‘Err, ran-dom! Even by your standards,’ I say, stifling a giggle.
‘You mark my words.’ Eddie folds his arms and looks at me, meaningfully.
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous. He probably just wants me to escort him around the store or up to the personal shopping suite. And besides, he’s not that old,’ I protest, desperately clinging to my own words for reassurance.
‘Oh well, why not – at least it’s a bit of excitement, unlike the rest of Mulberry-On-Sea.’
‘If it’s so boring here, why do you stay?’
‘Cos you’re here. The very best friend a girl could have.’ He looks serious for a brief moment. ‘I can talk to you and you never judge me, that counts for a lot in my book.’
‘Aw, that’s so nice Ed.’
‘Hmm, lap it up pussycat because it’s the only time I’m saying it.’ I squeeze his cheek and he shoves my hand away. ‘Whatevs! Now go. You don’t want to keep your sugar daddy waiting.’ Eddie makes a shooing action towards me.
‘Ha ha,’ I say, pulling a fake smile face and slinging my bag back over my shoulder before jumping inside the lift and pulling the cage door closed.
I arrive just in time to see an ominous black Maybach with privacy windows glide to a standstill right in front of the main entrance. I dive behind the huge Clarins display board and buy myself a few seconds to call James. After what feels like an eternity, he eventually answers.
‘Just go without me,’ he snaps uncharacteristically, after I tell him about Malikov’s impromptu lunch request. ‘You can manage that, can’t you?’ His voice sounds brittle, and I can hear a woman yelling in the background.
‘Of course …’ I mutter, feeling taken aback. ‘I just wanted to check as we don’t normally go out for lunch with customers. I’d hate to jeopardise anyth—’
‘Just don’t upset him then, and you won’t.’
‘James, is everything OK?’ I ask, a lump suddenly forming in my throat.
‘Never better … look, I can’t talk now. Do whatever you need to.’ And the line goes dead. I stare at the phone in disbelief, wondering what’s got into him, before slotting it back into my bag. But I can’t think about it now, not with Malikov waiting.
A henchman in a black leather coat hauls himself out and pulls open the passenger door as I walk towards the car.
‘Mr Malikov, he want you for a lunch,’ the henchman says slowly in a heavy Russian accent, as if struggling to pick the right words. My nervousness makes me want to giggle, but I stifle the urge.
Sliding into the car, I pop my bag down on the floor and find that I’m sitting right next to Malikov; the armrest has been folded back and he’s sitting just off centre. He’s wearing a ridiculous-looking speckled grey fur hat with a pinstripe suit, complete with waistcoat, the buttons of which are straining around his bulging midriff. There’s another henchman sitting in the front passenger seat with a tattoo on the side of his neck and a transparent curly plastic lead hanging from his ear. A bodyguard! Oh my God.
Malikov slowly turns to look at me before treating me to a smile that conjures up an image of Little Red Riding Hood’s wolf.
‘Mr Malikov …’ I start. He tilts his head.
‘My dear, what a short memory you have …’
I swallow, before taking a deep breath.
‘Sorry. Kon,’ I quickly remember, feeling uneasy at such familiarity in the intimate surroundings of his car. ‘Please accept my apologies. James can’t join us today, he’s … been held up with another customer,’ I say, managing to sound convincing.
‘Ha!’ He waves a dismissive hand. ‘This is better.’ He laughs, letting his gaze linger uncomfortably long. My heart feels as if it might jump right out of my chest. The car pulls away and I sit back in an attempt to relax, when the seat suddenly starts vibrating. The shock makes me gasp.
‘You like it? It’s for massage,’ Malikov booms, looking very pleased with himself.
‘It’s unusual,’ I manage, instantly knowing better than to disagree with him as I reach up for the grab handle in a desperate attempt to try and control my jigging body. ‘How can I help you today?’ I ask, the vibration from the seat making my voice sound all wobbly and ridiculous.
He waves a dismissive hand. ‘I want to give you this.’ He taps his cane on the back of the seat to alert the bodyguard who, after glancing in the rear-view mirror, takes a black velvet box from the glove compartment and hands it back to Malikov. ‘A small gift for you.’ Malikov pushes the box towards me.
‘Oh, Kon. That’s very generous of you but really there’s no need,’ I say, immediately holding my hands up to emphasise the fact that I can’t accept it.
‘My wife and daughter were very pleased with the matching purses. You’re a clever girl.’ He goes to hand me the box again and I hesitate. ‘I shall be offended if you don’t take it.’ His eyes narrow. I swallow, remembering the Chiavaccis and James’s instruction not to upset him.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to … it’s just that I’m not really allowed to accept gifts from customers.’ The massage action ends abruptly, making the word customer jump up a few octaves. Instantly, my cheeks flush. I quickly try to regain some composure. ‘I’m sure you understand.’ He studies me. ‘Only it’s not appropriate for me to do so, and in any case I didn’t really do anything,’ I tell him, making sure I don’t imply his behaviour is in any way inappropriate.
‘Nonsense, you must take it. It’s just a trinket and I always reward my … laydeeez,’ he says, dropping his eyelids as a sleazy smile forms across his hard face. ‘But there is one condition,’ he adds, covertly. ‘It must be our secret.’ His eyes snap open wide now. ‘If you tell anyone I shall deny it, my wife insists on discretion. So you must tell nobody, most of all the tax man.’ He sniggers at his own joke in an attempt to mask the threat in his voice, and then lets his leg fall against mine. I can’t believe his wife condones this revolting reward system.
‘Of course, but I’m sorry. Really, I can’t,’ I say, trying to sound more insistent. Silence follows.
‘But I’m not just any old customer. I like to think of us as … friends,’ he says, gesturing magnanimously with both hands and allowing the words to linger suggestively as I try and ignore the pounding sound of my own heartbeat. He’s ancient. Must be at least fifty. And it was all over Google about his legion of girlfriends. I remember what Eddie said about the waterbed and feel relieved I can’t take the present, not even bearing to think what sexual favours he might expect in return.
‘And we are.’ He glares at me.
‘I would if I could,’ I quickly add. And then, to my surprise, he totally changes tack.
‘You have class.’ Malikov shakes his head vigorously as I subtly pick at the fluff that flies from his hat onto my face. ‘Silly me, you cannot accept trinkets from a man you barely know. I should have realised that.’ He pats my knee, sending a shock of revulsion to circuit through