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 me, and then slips the box into his pocket. I take a deep breath and smile broadly to cover the big sigh of relief that follows.
The car takes a sharp corner just as his phone rings so I grab the opportunity to put a smidgen of distance between us and surreptitiously slide myself towards the door. I glance out of the window, trying to work out where we are, but I don’t recognise the back street we’re crawling through.
‘Lunch is cancelled,’ Malikov announces after stabbing his phone to end the call. He taps the back of the driver’s seat. ‘Back to Carrington’s and then take me to my lawyer’s. We must finalise the details of the super-injunction,’ he orders, emphasising the words ‘super-injunction’ and sounding very showy and impressed with himself. He turns to me. ‘I’m sorry my dear, but this is the price of success. Everyone at the top has one these days.’ He rolls his eyes, pretending to be put out by the trappings of his perceived status. ‘Another time perhaps?’ and he takes my hand and plants a bristly kiss across my knuckles. I resist the urge to throw up in his lap, thinking that’ll teach me to squeeze my cleavage at dodgy old pervs.
‘Oh, what a shame. Well, please let us know if we can help with anything else,’ I venture, feeling relieved that I won’t have to endure lunch now but disappointed that I’ve not had the chance to talk to him about the Chiavaccis.
‘Actually there is something else …’ His voice trails off. He looks away.
‘Yes?’ I reply, eagerly, pushing my personal feelings about him to one side. He turns back and studies me for a moment.
‘It’s an associate of mine … but he doesn’t speak English so I will act on his behalf,’ he says as a statement.
‘Oh, OK. Do you know what he would like to buy?’ I hold my breath, hoping he wants a designer bag or three, or a nice set of luggage perhaps. A big sale to impress Maxine would be fantastic.
‘Gifts for his family in Moscow. He has seven sisters. Each with a penchant for quality goods.’ Malikov locks his eyes onto mine. Silence follows. ‘Chanel bags!’ he exclaims suddenly. ‘The most expensive ones.’ His eyes light up and my heart sinks. We don’t stock Chanel.
‘Yes the Chanel bags are very stylish, but I wonder if your friend has considered the Bottega range? I have eight of the Venetas,’ I say, knowing they’re still nestling in the stock cupboard. Way too pricey for our normal customers, and who can afford to pay thousands for a bag in any case?
‘Do they cost more?’
‘Oh yes, they’re very expensive, everyone wants one, but I’d be happy to reserve seven of them for your associate,’ I say, hoping to appeal to his sense of entitlement.
‘Let him have six,’ he smiles nastily, and I immediately feel sorry for the sister who will miss out. ‘I want the other two … for my wife and daughter.’
‘Wonderful,’ I say, forcing a smile.
‘And you will ship them? For the sisters.’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ I nod eagerly. This will get my section off to a good start with Maxine, and I can’t wait to tell James – hopefully his half of the sales commission will cheer him up. I know we’re in competition now, but Malikov was his customer originally so it’s only fair to share. ‘And I believe you were interested in the limited edition Chiavacci bags,’ I say, tentatively, steadying my voice from showing too much excitement as the car pulls up opposite Carrington’s.
‘Perhaps, but the boss would need to be here. Goodbye,’ he says, adjusting his hat. I shake his hand before stepping out of the car, and then realise that I’ve forgotten my bag. I quickly spin around to see it dangling on the end of his extended right index finger. As I lean back inside the car to retrieve it, Malikov’s eyes dart down towards my cleavage and he treats me to another leer.
I’m busy tweeting about my encounter with Malikov when I glance up to see Maxine push through the revolving doors at the front of the store. For some reason, I hesitate and hold back. And I’m glad I have because, as Maxine walks around to the side exit, James emerges from the loading bay.
I duck into a tiny alcove next to the betting shop, just in time to see them chatting. I swear James is laughing. Although it’s tricky to be sure, as Maxine is standing right in front of him, but still, he’s not snapping at her like he did with me just an hour or so ago. Maxine is rubbing his arm now and they look very cosy indeed. And oh my God, she’s hugging him. Her lips are pressed to his ear as if she’s whispering something illicit! Bound to be. My stomach lurches. I feel like an utter fool. I take a deep breath and turn away to study the odds for the upcoming football matches. When I turn back around to walk over to Carrington’s, James has gone and Maxine is sashaying towards me, her hair fanning all around her like the Greek goddess, Venus, or whatever. In my peripheral vision I spot a group of suits from a nearby estate agent’s office nudging each other as they gape in her direction. One of them winks and another shouts ‘oi oi’, but Maxine is oblivious; she has a cigarette in one hand and her mobile in the other, and it’s pressed to her ear.
‘Who was that?’ she asks, pulling the phone away and clutching it to her chest. She traces a question mark in the air with her cigarette.
‘Mr Malikov, he’s a customer,’ I tell her.
‘Nice car,’ she says, drawing in another lungful. She exhales through her nose and shakes her hair around for a bit. ‘Why doesn’t he come inside like everyone else?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, in future you need to let me know about every private customer and their personal shopping visits … preferably conducted within the personal shopping suite.’
‘OK, if you’re sure – it’s not something we normally do.’ My heart sinks at the prospect of being tracked like a Saturday girl on her first job.
‘I’m in charge now and I want things done properly. What if something had happened to you? Then where would we be?’ she says, flashing her pageant smile.
‘Quite.
