Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s. Alexandra Brown
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.
‘But that’s thirty per cent less,’ I state, keeping my voice low and trying to ignore the panic that’s swirling in the pit of my stomach. What the hell was I thinking, coming back here? I hesitate, and clutch the handles of my tote.
‘Look, I could go to twenty-eight per cent less,’ he says, scribbling on the paper before swinging it around to show me. I glance down at the revised figure.
‘How would twenty be?’ I ask, figuring it’s worth a go but feeling ashamed that I’ve resorted to this. He laughs.
‘Twenty-six. And that’s my final offer.’ He goes to scribble on the paper again but I beat him to it by placing my hand down. I swallow and think of the credit report. The sleepless nights. Maxine’s modernising makeover. Keeping my job. My lack of qualifications. And how I’ve made fifteen online applications for other jobs so far, ranging from data entry clerk to receptionist, and I haven’t even managed to get an interview. Even though I can’t bear the thought of leaving Carrington’s, I figured I should have a backup plan. And with Maxine’s warning to have everything in order, there’s no other way – even the car and the flat are worth less than their outstanding finance, so I can’t just sell them and save money that way.
But Mrs Grace said that fate would see me right and it has, sort of … Malikov didn’t have to give me the necklace and nobody at work knows about it. It’s enough to pay off all three credit cards plus the store card. And Malikov is bound to be offended if I return the necklace now; he’ll think I’ve deliberately double-crossed him. I can’t risk upsetting him, not after James told me not to, and not if there’s a chance of him buying the Chiavacci bags. I swallow again, and a twitch starts up at the corner of my right eyelid.
‘OK.’ Blood pounds in my ears.
He nods, and then instructs me to follow him through to the office. ‘Take a seat.’ I do as I’m told and he leaves the room. My heart is racing. Fate will see me right, I say inside my head, over and over, until I’ve convinced myself that it’s meant to be.
The door flings open and the jeweller returns with several cloth bank bags and a paper invoice that he hands to me. I quickly shove it into my bag. My mouth feels dry as he dumps the cloth bags down on the table and starts ripping the paper bands from each of the bundles of cash. He then runs each wad through the money counter before placing them into envelopes. Once he’s finished counting, he pushes the pile of envelopes towards me before offering his hand. We shake on the deal and he makes his way to the door.
Just as he reaches it, he turns back to me. ‘I’ll leave you for a few minutes to get organised.’ Organised? What does he mean? I feel confused. I stare at him. ‘The money.’ He motions to the table. ‘You might want to put it away,’ he adds, looking at me as though I’m stupid. And maybe he has a point. Perhaps I am stupid. But I can’t back out now.
‘Oh, yes, of course. I was just wondering whether my bag would be big enough,’ I say, nervously patting my shopper, and feeling out of my depth. I wait for the click of the door before reaching out to the money. My hands are shaking, and my blood feels as though it might pump right out through my eye sockets as I lean over the table and start thrusting the envelopes into my bag.
Back at home, I run into the kitchen and grab the scissors from the drawer. I frantically cut my store cards into tiny pieces. Then I reach for the credit cards. My right hand is trembling and I feel scared. I’ve never felt so alone. Not even after Mum died and the social worker collected me from the hospital to take me to Nanny Jean’s house – at least the buck didn’t stop with me when it came to paying for everything. What if there’s an emergency? I waver and then relinquish myself to the feeling of panic at not having my safety net to fall back on. I only manage to cut up one of the credit cards.
I walk into the lounge, and stand in front of the bookcase, and after squeezing my eyes tight shut I reach out to grab a book. Then I quickly ram the other credit card in between the pages, before pushing it back onto the shelf, feeling with my fingertips until it’s safely back in place. I count to ten before I let myself open my eyes. Then I gather together all of my card statements and shove them into my bag. First thing tomorrow morning I’m going to pay them off. The