my way to the staff lift. As the lift staggers through the floors I open my bag. And I don’t believe it. There, perched on top of my purse, is Malikov’s suede box. Oh my God, he must have slipped it in when I was getting out of the car. He sure as hell doesn’t take no for an answer.
On leaving the lift I make my way straight into the loo, and after checking the coast is clear I pull the box from my bag. As I push open the lid I let out an involuntary gasp that’s quickly followed by a hushed, ‘Wow.’ It’s a ruby necklace and it’s absolutely exquisite. I glance at the door before carefully lifting it from the box and holding it up to my neck.
As I lean across the sink to get a better look in the mirror, the gems glisten in the light. It’s irresistible, so I quickly fasten it around my neck, admiring the way the rubies skim my collarbone. I allow myself a moment of fantasy, imagining that I’m a Russian princess and that this necklace is just one of many pieces in my vast collection, when the door bursts open.
I dash into the nearest cubicle and hurriedly take the necklace off, placing it carefully back into the box before stowing it back into my handbag.
12
£7,786.91. OH MY ACTUAL GOD. The saliva drains from my mouth. It’s Monday morning. My day off. Wintry fresh sun is streaming through the slats of the white Venetian blind at my bedroom window and I’ve just finished tallying up my debts. I scan the spreadsheet again, desperately searching for an error. Surely it can’t be right. I highlight the amounts and press the Autosum button again, just in case, but it’s no use. The amount doesn’t change. Everything is there, even a store card I used to pay for the dress I wore to Sam’s birthday do, and the balance is now almost double what the dress cost in the first place. Another wave of nausea charges through me followed by a cold shiver of sweat. I reach over to the thick envelope containing the copy of my credit file. My hand is shaking but there’s no way out, I have to face it.
‘Bloody hell, what’s this?’ Sam yells, from the lounge.
‘What’s what?’ I yell back, my eyes scanning the report.
‘This necklace here on the coffee table. It’s divine.’
‘Oh, a customer gave it to me. I need to get it sent back to him,’ I shout back distractedly, eager to concentrate on the details in front of me. Sam stayed last night and we’re just about to head off to do some shopping. Or window shopping only, in my case.
I blink to refocus my eyes before taking another look. The paper trembles in my hands. All three of my credit cards have glaring late-payment markers against them, and one is even showing as having a missed payment. One of my store cards has an arrears marker too. I feel faint now.
I grab the phone handset from the bedside table to call the credit report company. I’ve got to find out what my options are in getting this mess tidied up. After tapping out the number I wait for a ring tone. Silence. I hang up and try again, and still the same thing. Damn phone, and there’s no dial tone. Then a woman’s voice comes onto the line and I realise I’ve come straight through to the phone company instead.
After taking me through security she announces, ‘I’m sorry, Madam, but your line has been disconnected for non-payment.’
‘Non-payment? I only switched over to you a little while ago. I haven’t even had a bill yet,’ I protest, wincing at the condescending ‘madam’ reference. I can feel the skin on my back prickling.
‘Well, the bills have been sent. Three in total, and since you haven’t responded to any of the requests for payment, your line has been disconnected,’ she says, in a bossy matter-of-fact voice.
‘But I haven’t had any bills, I’m sure of it,’ I plead. Surely there must be some kind of mistake. There’s a pause while I listen to her tapping on a keyboard.
‘Well, according to the system you’re on paperless billing so you would have been sent several email billing notifications.’ Well, that explains it. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. I even set up a folder in my inbox labelled ‘bills to be paid’, but I must have forgotten to actually pay them. My heart sinks. I feel like such a failure.
‘So how much is outstanding?’ I ask, delving into my bag to retrieve my purse. I pull out a credit card in anticipation.
‘Three hundred and fifty-nine pounds and sixty-eight pence.’ I open my mouth but for a moment the words don’t come out. My tongue feels as if it’s staple-gunned to the roof of my mouth.
‘Three hundred pounds?’ I stammer, feeling like an idiot as my brain works overtime to try and remember when I last paid the phone bill.
‘Three hundred and fifty-nine pounds and sixty-eight pence,’ she repeats, emphasising every single word, and I’m sure I detect a hint of smugness in her voice.
‘But I hardly ever use the phone at home, that can’t possibly be right,’ I reply.
‘That includes a reconnection fee of a hundred and a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound holding deposit against the next eighteen months’ billing period, on top of your bill for the previous two quarters.’
This is unbelievable.
‘So I have to give you an extra two hundred and fifty just to get my phone reconnected?’ My voice sounds tight and I feel like crying.
‘Yes. Would you like to pay now?’ she asks. I want to scream ‘of course I bloody well don’t’, but instead I read out the details from my credit card and wait while she processes it.
‘I’m sorry, Madam, but the payment has been declined. Do you have another card?’ My heart sinks, my cheeks burn with shame, and I feel dizzy as I pull out another credit card. I give her the details and then wait again, willing it to be OK as I imagine somebody at the credit card office spinning a giant roulette wheel.
‘Yes, that’s all fine now.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, my hands shaking as I hang up. Everything is far from being fine. I take a gulp of air that catches in my throat. Sam taps on the half-open bedroom door. I quickly shove the credit report into my handbag before tugging at the door handle. I’ll have to call them later.
‘Are we still going shopping?’ she beams at me, after I pull the door wide open. ‘Only I thought I could wear this,’ she guffaws, holding Malikov’s necklace up to her neck.
‘Sure,’ I say, with a half-smile, as I try and forget about the credit report and the phone bill fiasco. Sam and I have never actually discussed money. Of course she knows we’re in totally different leagues, but somehow it’s always seemed like a taboo subject between us.
‘I think these gems are real and probably worth a bit,’ she says, scrutinising the necklace. ‘I know – let’s get it valued.’ Making big pleading eyes at me, she tries to make it sound as though the idea has just popped into her head. ‘I’m dying to know how much it’s worth,’ she says, hopping from one foot to the other, barely able to contain her excitement.
‘I can’t, it was a present from a customer. And we’re not allowed to accept gifts.’
‘Oh how exciting. Tell me about him, is he hot?’
‘Hardly, he’s a middle-aged Russian, with eyes like a piranha,’
