Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s. Alexandra Brown

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ