Autumn shakes her curls. “Promise me that you won’t do this again,” she says. “Sex with strangers is fraught with danger. You should think about getting your chakras cleansed to dispel the negative energy.”
She should get her head examined, is what I think!
Chantal has the good grace to look embarrassed. Her cheeks flush bright red. “He says that I can have all of my jewelry back—”
“That’s good news, isn’t it?” Autumn chips in.
Chantal gives her a weary look. “If I give him the thirty thousand pounds it’s worth. He must have had it valued.”
“People like that have fences,” I say, proving that I had a misspent youth watching gangster movies. My friends look at me blankly. “Not garden fences. Fences for stolen goods. Shifty guys in back-street pawnshops who’ll move their ill-gained booty for a cut of the loot. Chantal’s jewelry will probably be melted down or will be winging its way to some dodgy dealer in the depths of Europe if she doesn’t comply.”
“This is not making me feel happier, Lucy,” Chantal says.
“Sorry.”
“Thirty thousand pounds is an awful lot of money.” Autumn tells us what we already know.
“That will buy his silence too,” Chantal adds.
“Bloody hell.” I’m just chock-full of sparkling advice today. Maybe it’s the vision of all those destroyed books and bookcases that are blocking my mental processes. I cannot possibly tell them about my earlier employment mishap. There are far more pressing matters than me having totaled a bookshop and more than likely being out of work. Besides, I might cry and I have to stay strong for Chantal. She needs us now.
Nadia looks shamefaced. “But I’ve taken all your money, Chantal,” she says. “What will you do?”
Chantal’s face takes on an expression of grim determination. “I’ll have to find some more.”
“You have to take it back. I can get a loan … or something.” Even Na-dia doesn’t look convinced.
Chantal puts a hand on her arm. “I wouldn’t hear of it,” she says. “Your need is still greater than mine. I got myself into this goddamn stupid mess. I’m the one who has to get me out of it. I’ll find the money somehow.”
“But you can’t buy your own jewelry back.” Autumn looks horrified. “It belongs to you. This must be the time to go to the police.”
“No,” Chantal says firmly. “I can’t do that.”
I have to agree with her. Watch any film about handing over ransoms and the minute the police get involved, it all goes to pot. The baddies always get away with the loot. There’ll be blood up the walls and dead bodies everywhere. Metaphorical, if not literal. It seems that Chantal has the chance to get her jewelry back and she has to take it. “Can you realistically get the money though?”
“It’s going to be tough,” she confesses, wringing her hands together. “Getting thirty grand out of the account without Ted noticing took some skill and dexterity. Another thirty?” Chantal shrugs. “I don’t know. That would pretty much clean us out. We have paintings that might have to take a hike. Maybe I could tell Ted that I’ve sent them for restoration, put them in the attic, eaten them. I’m a resourceful woman. There must be something I can conjure up. And fast. I have to call the sleazeball back today and let him know what I want to do. He wants me to meet him at a hotel to exchange the cash for my jewels.” Chantal huffs expansively. “Yeah, sure.”
A lightbulb pings on in my brain and I shoot upright in my seat. “No. No. You must do it,” I say. “Arrange to meet him—not in London though. Somewhere out of the way. Out in the country, maybe.” My friends look at me expectantly. “I have a great plan,” I say excitedly. “Chantal, we are going to get your jewelry back.”
They stare at me agog, and even I wonder why I’m behaving like someone out of Ocean’s Eleven.
Chapter Forty
MR. JESMOND HAD TO BE taken straight back to hospital suffering from shock after he’d seen the state of his bookshop. He’d returned expecting everything to be “shipshape” and instead his ship had been well and truly scuppered. The agency tell me that he’s okay now, no permanent damage, and they’ve sent him some fruit and flowers which they’re billing me for. I think that’s only fair. They’ve also sent two girls to his bookshop free of charge for the next week to sort out the mess. One of them used to be a librarian, so I think everything will work out okay. Except that now I haven’t got a job or even an agency. Office Goddesses—clearly coming to the conclusion that I was an Office Demon—invited me to leave their books even though I explained how it had all happened and how I’d started out with only the best of intentions.
This morning, I registered with another agency and I’m hoping that they don’t take up references from Office Goddesses otherwise I am up shit creek sans the proverbial paddle. I’ve spent the morning with a big sheet of paper spread out on my living room carpet hatching out a cunning heist plan for the members of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club—Operation Liberate Chantal’s Jewelry. I’m chewing my pen, pacing the floor and scratching my head in the manner of all Hollywood master criminals. I’m thinking of getting a white, fluffy cat. Not having planned my own robbery before, it’s proving somewhat tricky, but I think that I’ve now got everything in place. I wanted to meet the girls at lunchtime to go over my idea, but everyone’s busy today. The Aggrieved herself, Chantal, is on an assignment. A very secret one, by the sound of it, as she was rather cagey about telling me where she was. Nadia has a job interview and Autumn is trying to improve the tortured lives of the druggies of this world—her own brother included. Now it’s fast approaching lunchtime and I have nothing to do and no food in the house, unless you count heaps of chocolate, and as I have eaten little else these last few days, I think it’s time that I had something more nourishing and wholesome. Fruit, veg, lentils—some farty food. I’m sitting here eating my own fingernails and wondering what to do.
I could go to the gym and work out—but I dismiss that thought straightaway. I don’t need to punish myself today; losing my job was punishment enough. I need something or someone to give me a bit of love or comfort. There are some times—only very, very occasional—when chocolate just isn’t quite a good enough substitute for human sympathy. I could give Crush a call, but then I’d have to tell him about the Jesmond bookshop incident and that I don’t now have any discernible work, and he’d laugh his head off and it would be all round the Targa offices before teatime. Maybe I’ll call him when I’ve got my career back on track again. Sometime in the next millennium, then.
I could also call Jacob and see if he’s free. But guys get spooked about that sort of thing, don’t they? If you’ve only had a couple of dates and then you start phoning them out of the blue they think you’re turning into a bunny boiler or want to marry them or, at the very least, meet their mother.
Or I could call Marcus. Just for old times’ sake. Even though, technically, it was his fault that I’ve lost my job. My fingers hover dangerously over the buttons on my mobile. It would be a shame after five years in a relationship if we couldn’t even remain friends, don’t you think? That would be a total waste of our time together. If you don’t forgive someone their misdemeanors, doesn’t it leave a black mark on your own soul? I’d like to avoid that, and if one small call to Marcus would do it, then I think it would be worth the risk. I press in his number and take deep breaths as I hear it ring. I hope that he doesn’t read too much into this. He shouldn’t. Besides, he called me first.
Marcus looks so handsome and my heart squeezes when I see him, even though I’ve firmly instructed it not to. He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit, a white shirt and a deep pink tie. I like a man who is easy enough with his masculinity to enable him to wear pink. I’m waiting outside his office, and when he swings out of the revolving door, he takes my hand and kisses me on the cheek.
“It’s good to see you,” he says, while I can only wonder why I’ve chosen to ring my ex-boyfriend at a time of crisis. Particularly when he’s
the cause of my crisis. I guess familiarity sometimes doesn’t breed contempt, it breeds comfort.
Still hand in hand, we head for a café with tables outside in the shadow of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The tattered pigeons peck around our feet, strutting their stuff as we each order grilled vegetable and mozzarella paninis and a glass of red house wine.
“I thought I’d really blown it last time,” Marcus admits. “Thanks for giving me another chance.”
“This isn’t another chance,” I tell him firmly. “I called you because I’ve had a truly terrible week and I wanted to be with someone I’m … comfortable with. Nothing more.”
Marcus grins at me in his heart-stopping way. “Comfortable?” He laughs. “It’s a start, I guess. I’ll settle for that.”
The waitress brings our food and drinks. Marcus slugs back a gulp of the warm red wine and bites decisively into his sandwich. When he looks back at me, he’s suddenly serious. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Lucy. Really, I don’t. When we’re like this together I think that nothing can compare to our relationship. I love you—you have to believe that. But then, when we’re all settled and get too comfortable, I start to think about marriage and kids and cozy domesticity for the rest of my life, and I panic. That’s what makes me do the things I do. It’s as if some sort of safety valve blows. Every time that I do it, I know that I’ve made a monumental mistake—”
“But it doesn’t stop you from doing it.”
He shakes his head.
“The thing is, Marcus, if I keep taking you back after you’ve made one of your ‘monumental’ mistakes I’m going to end up as one of those sad women who writes to agony columns. ‘Dear Cathy, My husband can’t stay faithful to me. I still love him. What can I do?’ Or I’ll be on some talk show, sobbing into a handkerchief with a caption that says in capital letters LUCY’S HUSBAND CHEATS ON HER!”
“So, you can see yourself married to me?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I used to be able to, Marcus. I’d love to get married and have children, I can’t deny that. I’m happy being single, but I don’t want to be on my own forever. With you, I have the worst of both worlds. I’m in a constant limbo, never quite knowing whether I’m back on the singles scene or in a relationship.”
“I want to get married and have kids too,” he says. “Eventually. Our industry has a terrible track record, though. Without exception, every guy in our office who’s been married is now divorced. Some are onto their third or fourth wife—their third or fourth set of kids. They spend their weekends on the motorway shuttling between families for their two-hour access visits, then spend their afternoons hanging round McDonald’s. I don’t want to be like that. Is it so wrong that I want to make absolutely sure before I sign up for the whole package?”
When put like that, it’s hard to argue against.
“We’re still young, Lucy,” Marcus continues. “Do we need to rush this?”
“We’ve been together for five years.” Mostly. “If you don’t know now, then the chances are that you never will.” I sigh and finish my wine. “I feel as if I’m getting too old for all of this emotional turmoil.”
Marcus looks stricken. “What can I do to prove that it’s you that I want to be with?”
Stop sleeping with other women would be a good start, I think. But I don’t voice this. Instead I sigh wearily and say, “I don’t know.” I’m too exhausted to deal with a relationship discussion today. This isn’t what I’d planned. But then what exactly am I doing here? “I think it’s all a little late for this conversation.”
“Don’t say that.”
I make to stand up. “I should go.”
“Don’t!” Marcus begs. “Stay. Please stay.”
Reluctantly, I settle back in my seat.
Then he becomes animated. “I know.” He clasps the sides of his head as if he’s had a brain wave. “Move in with me. Move into my place. Permanently.”
My face must register the shock I’m feeling. All I wanted from Marcus was a glass of wine and a few jokes. Maybe a bit of flirtation and possibly some begging. But this was definitely not on the cards.
“Seriously,” he says, and an excited note trills in his voice. “We can do this, Lucy. Let’s give it a try. Now. I’ll blow out work this afternoon.”
I’m rooted to the spot. Is this really coming from Marcus the workaholic? Bunking off work? He must have had a personality transplant.
“We can move your gear in straightaway,” he continues. “Why wait?”
I can feel my eyes blinking rapidly and my mouth has dropped open as if it plans to speak, but it’s currently refusing to say anything. Marcus wants me to move in with him! Could we do this? Can I give my straying boyfriend yet one more chance? He’s never asked me to move in with him before. This is certainly a step change. I’ve never been a live-in lover and the thought of it seems so tempting. That would surely mean that he’s beginning to embrace the concept of “forever.” You don’t ask someone to move in with you if you’re planning to have a parade of different totty through your flat every night, do you? If I’m around all the time, when would he get the opportunity to be unfaithful? Perhaps taking our relationship to this new level could be just the thing we need. I suddenly feel feverish and a shiver of anticipation or fear or something travels through my body. Could we really do this?
Just as a response is formulating in my stunned brain, Marcus claps his hand to his forehead.
“We can’t,” he says with a miserable puff of air. “We can’t.”
“Why? Why?” I was just getting used to the idea. “Why not?”
“All the floors are up at the moment in the flat.”
“The floors?”
“I’ve got a problem with the drains or something,” he says. “The whole place stinks. Dyno-Rod has been in, but they couldn’t find the source of the smell. I’ve had to get a team of builders in. They’ve ripped up the floors in all of the rooms, but they can’t find a thing.”
My cheeks turn the livid color of Marcus’s tie. “Really?”
“It smells like rotting fish,” he continues. “You wouldn’t want to be there. Not yet. I’m considering moving into a hotel myself until they find out what’s wrong. But as soon as they’re finished …”
I press my lips together and consider what to say next. So nearly, I was caught up in Marcus’s enthusiasm. So nearly, I was thinking about what to pack. So nearly, I was forgetting all about Jacob and how much I like him. So nearly, Crush was simply my boss. So nearly, I was forgetting how truly awful Marcus has been to me.
“It’s prawns,” I say.
Marcus looks suitably puzzled.
“The smell,” I confirm. “It’s prawns. They’re in your sofa and under your mattress.”
My ex-boyfriend looks horrified. “You put them there?”
“I did.”
He stares at me for a moment, not speaking. His jaw is working away as it does when he’s anxious. “You did it at the same time as you filled all my suits and shoes with mashed potatoes?”
“Yes.”
Marcus rubs a hand over his brow. “I suppose I should laugh about this.”
“That would be one way of handling it,” I say, my face on fire.
“But I can’t,” Marcus tells me. “It’s cost me thousands of pounds so far. The sofa’s being replaced next week because the lipstick stains wouldn’t come out of it. Remember? Where you wrote MARCUS CANNING, YOU ARE A CHEATING BASTARD in very large red letters on the white leather?”
I remember.
Marcus is clearly shell-shocked. “Did I really deserve this, Lucy?”
“At the time, I thought you did.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’m sorry.”
Marcus stands up. “I have to go back to work.”
“Marcus,” I say. “I am sorry. I just wanted us to be friends.”
He doesn’t say anything. He simply walks away from me.
The waitress comes to t
idy away our plates. “Would you like anything else?”
“Can I see the dessert menu, please?”
She brings it and I order not one, but two whacking great slices of chocolate fudge cake.
Chapter Forty-one
WHEN I MEET UP WITH the good ladies of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club the very next day, I have finalized the details of my master plan. We’ve all managed to get together after work and, if this were a pub, we’d be having what is commonly known as a “lock-in.” The CLOSED sign is on the door and it’s just our select band enjoying the delights of Chocolate Heaven. Rain is lashing at the windows and Clive has lit some candles on the coffee tables to ward off the encroaching grayness. I tell you, if I were a billionaire, I’d pay Clive and Tristan to keep this establishment for my own exclusive use.
“We’re going to get your jewelry back,” I tell Chantal in a voice that sounds full of grit and steely determination.
They all laugh at me.
“And how are we going to do that, honey?” Chantal wants to know as she breaks a bite-sized piece off the edge of a chocolate chip cookie.
“Like this.” I hand out a sheet of instructions to each of them.
Today I’ve been temping in some anonymous, gray office building where no one spoke to me. A truly terrible place and so, to make it more bearable, I spent the day finely honing the details of Operation Liberate Chantal’s Jewelry and printing out copies for all of us.
They all scan the pages. Now they’re not laughing quite so much.
“You’re serious,” Autumn breathes.
“Deadly.”
“Do you really think we can do this?”
“I think we have to try,” I say firmly. I’m comforting myself with a bar of single Madagascar, this time the milk chocolate rather than the dark. It’s creamy, sweet and buttery like the chocolate I remember from my childhood. My mother used to be a chocoholic—it was she who started me out on this path. Then she decided that she needed to be size eight to have a fulfilled life and now lives on nothing but lettuce. It makes her completely miserable, but she does have the body of a malnourished child that she so desired. I think, at her age, I’d settle for fat and happy.