gadgets, useless waste of time,’ Dad puffs, before hanging up.
I shove my phone into my pocket and pull out an old tissue to blow my nose on. I feel utterly crap as I carry on walking.
Gino’s, as always, looks warm and inviting. Its 1950s décor of blue and white tiles above caramel-coloured painted wood panels is old-fashioned but comforting, and with a bit of luck I won’t bump into anybody from work in here.
‘Bella! Long time no see.’ Gino looks up from a huge bowl of green pesto he’s lovingly spooning into small pots, and I manage to smile back, hoping my tissue rescue job performed a few minutes ago outside has worked well enough to hide the tear stains. ‘What can I get you, a milky tea?’
‘Yes please. And lots of sugar,’ I say, suddenly craving a sugar rush like it’s the only excitement on offer these days.
‘Take a seat and I’ll bring it over,’ he says, gesturing with his hand towards the tables.
‘Thank you.’ I make my way over to a corner one and busy myself with draping my coat across the back of the rickety wooden chair, when Mrs Grace, my predecessor in Women’s Accessories, appears at my side.
‘Mind if I join you, love?’ she says, unbuttoning her wool coat before patting the back of her Garnier blonde Aunty Bessie bun. I shake my head, not wanting to be rude, and she sits down opposite me. Gino arrives with our drinks and hands us two steaming pink mugs.
‘Thanks Gino,’ I say, and he dashes back to the counter.
‘A little treat to cheer you up.’ Mrs Grace pulls a red foil-wrapped chocolate heart from her granny handbag and places it on the table in front of me. Her kindness makes me well up again. ‘Oh lovey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you again. Come on now, no tears. I spotted you leaving the store when I was outside having a ciggy. I could see you were upset so I followed you. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘Sorry.’ I dab my eyes again.
‘Tell me,’ she says gently, handing me a napkin. ‘I’m old, but sometimes a friendly ear can help.’ Mrs Grace looks across at me, her crinkly eyes full of concern. And the whole story comes tumbling out like a confessional.
‘You’ll be fine, sweetheart,’ Mrs Grace says, when I’ve finished telling her everything. ‘I’ve seen it all before. These high-flying types … coming in and shaking us all up with their fancy ideas.’ Mrs Grace crosses her arms and purses her lips. ‘And I must say that Maxine one is very full of herself. Nothing a decent square meal wouldn’t fix, mind you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, it’s the hunger, dear – makes them all edgy and overzealous,’ she explains, rolling her eyes.
Mrs Grace has heard everything, about today’s meeting with Maxine, and how I’ve now got to compete with James and Tom if I’m to stand a chance of keeping my job and not lose everything. I’ve even confided in her about my guilty secret crush on Tom, even though he can’t be trusted. And how deep down I’m fed up of spending Valentine’s Day on my own. Let alone going to a wedding that will no doubt be crammed full of happy couples, while I’m being ‘Bridget Jones alone’, unless a miracle occurs and I manage to find an actual date to invite. I yearn to look forward to 14 February, to feel excited. And light and skippy and in love, just as I was once with Brett. She also listened patiently while I told her about my debilitating debt problem and how it could totally ruin everything if it comes out. I’ll be deemed a risk.
‘Oh, I wish it were that easy, Mrs Grace,’ I say, trying to feel brighter.
‘And you tell James that he must stop touching your fingers. He has a wife,’ Mrs Grace says sternly, wagging her bony finger in the air. I manage a feeble giggle, imagining James’s face if I actually said that to him. Besides, he might not even speak to me now we’re going to be competing. ‘Though I heard on the grapevine that he and Maxine were once an item.’ She folds her arms.
My mouth drops open.
‘Whaat?’ I manage.
‘James and Maxine. They went out together after meeting on some training course in London, before he met and married his wife.’ She shakes her head. ‘That Maxine is now a woman scorned, I imagine. And James’s future is in her hands.’
I try to take in this piece of information. It all makes sense now, his reaction when she was introduced. And Mrs Grace could be wrong about who had dumped who: what if Maxine favours James? She could still have a thing for him. Or worse still, James might rekindle what he had with her. I know he’s married, but she is supermodel-stunning after all. Then where would that leave me – she’s hardly going to get rid of him if they are an item, is she?
I grab my bag. ‘Oh, look at the time,’ I say in a breezy voice. ‘I’d better go, but thanks so much for the sympathetic ear, Mrs Grace,’ I say gratefully.
‘Fate will see you right, my dear,’ she whispers, and suddenly my mind is crystal clear. I know what I have to do. ‘And don’t give up on Cupid … his arrow will find a way to your heart,’ she smiles, and gives me a big hug, enveloping me in a comforting, nostalgic mixture of stale perfume and Revlon lipstick.
11
‘There you are.’ Eddie runs towards me as soon as I step out of the staff lift. He looks agitated. ‘Do you know where James is?’
‘Err … no. What’s up?’
‘It’s the Russian – seems he’s in the mood for more shopping and I’ve been calling your section for the last half-hour at least,’ he pants.
‘Sorry.’
‘Well, you’re here now. James has gone AWOL, can’t get hold of him at all and the Russian is going to be here like any minute now. You better hurry, he wants you to meet him outside by the main entrance.’
‘But why?’ I ask, wondering why he can’t just come in the store like all the other customers. I mean, it’s not as if he’s mega-famous 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.
