“Yes,” Autumn said. “You’re very lucky that Daddy can pay for you to go to a rehab clinic that’s more like a five-star hotel, but that’s not the case for the majority of drug addicts.”
“Oh, don’t go on, Autumn,” he moaned as he trailed behind her. “I keep telling you, I’m not an addict. I’m a recreational user. I have this completely in control.”
“Sure.” Her brother had been cowed for a day or two after his close shave with Daisy, but now he was back to his most obnoxious self. “Isn’t that how everyone who dabbles with drugs starts out? In control?”
“It’s cocaine,” he said petulantly. “That’s all. You can get high for the price of a cup of cappuccino, these days. Even the government is downgrading the classification of drugs. They aren’t the evil things they were. They’re a lifestyle enhancer. We use them like after-dinner mints, darling. Just pop a few lines around with the coffee to give you a little buzz. There’s no harm in it.”
“I hate to contradict you, Rich, but you’ve lost your job and your home. The way I see it, you seem to be in a very bad place.”
“Look, this is all very well, sis.” He swept his arm around the hallway. “I really admire the fact that you want to do good in the world. I’m sure all of these spotty teenagers appreciate it. I’m sure they see you as a lifeline, but I’m not the same as them. I’m a long way away from a cardboard box on a street corner.” He gave a sneering laugh which made the hackles on Autumn’s neck rise. Only Richard could feel so smug about his current situation.
“That’s because you have a sister with a smart flat in Sloane Square,” she reminded him. “Where would you be otherwise?”
They turned into the art room, which was her domain. None of the clients had arrived yet, but the walls were decorated with their creative efforts. Some had made stained-glass mirrors with various creatures—cats, puppies, dragons—curled contentedly in one corner. Wobbly lines of lead beading betrayed the unsteady, inexpert hands of the artists. Others had been more adventurous, making colorful panels for doors that they would probably never see. Wonky sun-catchers adorned the windows, sucking in the few rays of light that made it to this, the north side of the building, casting rainbows of red, yellow and green over the tidy workbenches. This is where she loved to be. This was where she was happiest. And if she could make some small difference, bring a bit of color or satisfaction to the lives of her charges, then it was all worthwhile.
Richard slung his arm round her shoulder and gave her a conciliatory squeeze. “This looks great, Autumn. You really do a good job.”
“I try to,” she said honestly. Though sometimes she wondered whether it was enough. “My students will be here soon.”
On cue, a desperately thin girl with Goth clothes and a mop of dyed black hair complete with pink stripes came in—Tasmin, a sixteen-year-old crack addict. She’d been with Autumn for nearly a year and clearly had a talent for working with the glass. Tasmin had moved on from stained glass to use the kiln, searching out the most vibrant colors and blending them together to form delicate pieces. While the others were often champing at the bit to go home as they toiled to make a decent mosaic tile or a trivet, Tasmin would spend hours absorbed in twisting fine silver wires around the glass pieces she’d created and fired to make fashion pendants and earrings—pretty pieces of jewelry that she sometimes sold to friends for a few pounds. It gave Tasmin a great boost to her confidence and it thrilled Autumn too. She couldn’t help but admire the girl’s skill and determination. It was good to see one of her students doing so well. Tasmin truly had promise and yet every day was a struggle for her. With better education, Autumn was sure that Tasmin would have been quite academic—she was certainly bright, even though she sometimes let her quick wit and her foul mouth run away with her. Autumn just hoped that she could break free from her current social circle, the friends who seemed to be doing all they could to hold her back. On too many days, Tasmin turned up with bruises. None of the girls here really liked her. Underneath all the Goth makeup she was a very pretty girl: They were jealous of her looks and the fact that she’d found at the center that she had a talent for creating jewelry.
It was only a pity that Tasmin couldn’t produce a diamond ring and a few bracelets, so that they wouldn’t have to go through with their plans for tonight. Autumn felt sick with nerves when she thought of what her evening held for her. There was no way that she was going to tell Rich about it. The less he knew of her involvement in this hare-brained scheme, the better. She was supposed to have asked his advice about the number of sleeping pills that they might need to send their prey into a deep slumber, but they’d have to guess and hope for the best. Autumn’s stomach lurched again. Lucy was convinced that they could pull it off together. Autumn was less sure. She just hoped that they didn’t get caught.
“Hello, Tasmin.”
“Hi, Miss.” Autumn had tried to get her students to call her by her first name, but most of them still insisted on calling her “Miss.”
“Meet my brother, Richard.”
Tasmin glared at him suspiciously, taking in Rich’s black cashmere sweater and his designer jeans, just as he was taking in her ripped fishnet tights and her Dr. Martens boots.
“I’d better go,” Rich said uncomfortably. “I’ve got things to do.”
Autumn wondered what they might be. At least her brother had agreed to come here, but it seemed that actually spending time talking to the kids was going to be a step too far. They weren’t the easiest bunch of individuals to get close to—goodness only knows, it had taken her long enough. Now, very occasionally, Tasmin might bring her in a bar of chocolate since she’d discovered Autumn’s particular weakness. It was the closest she ever got to open admiration or thanks.
Her brother kissed her on both cheeks. “See you later.”
Autumn nodded. She longed to tell him to be careful, but knew that would only irritate him. Every time she wanted to talk to her brother, it felt as if she were walking on eggshells. She wished that Addison had been here to do it for her. He might have been able to convince Richard to get involved with the project somehow, where she had failed.
As Rich reached the door, a tall youth pushed past him, also giving her brother the wary once-over. This was Fraser, a heroin addict and small-time pusher from the age of fifteen. He ran a group of pickpockets who, in order to feed his habit, regularly relieved the shoppers on Oxford Street of their hard-earned cash. Despite his many problems and failings, he was a funny, likeable boy with a strong Glaswegian accent that she couldn’t understand half of the time. She wasn’t sure what he got out of her creative glass classes, but he was one of her most regular attenders. Perhaps it was something to do with the fact that he had a soft spot for Tasmin. Fraser was currently struggling with a suncatcher destined for his mum’s kitchen window at her home back in his native Scotland. It was perhaps as well that Richard hadn’t stayed around for long. There were things that she needed to discuss with Fraser that would be better kept from her brother’s ears.
“Wotcher, Miss.”
“Hello, Fraser.” Tasmin, she noted, was busy taking her latest project from the kiln. Autumn beckoned him to one side. “I need to ask you a favor.”
The boy leaned on the workbench next to her. “Ask away.”
Autumn lowered her voice. “Can you teach me how to pick pockets?” If Fraser was taken aback by her unusual request, he didn’t register it. Instead, he nodded confidently. “Aye.”
“Good,” she said. “I have to learn before tonight.”
Chapter Forty-four
I’M WEARING MY STRAPPY LITTLE black dress and my killer heels in the manner of all femme fatales. I’m shivering from head to toe, even though I feel as if there’s a furnace raging inside me. My cheeks are burning hot when I desperately need to look cool, calm and collected. I’ve had a bad day though and my poor old wits are rattling round my brain.
Needless to say, I was sacked from my lovely, lovely job as soon as I returned
to the shop to tell Floella my sorry tale. I’m left with cheeks burning with shame and my ears ringing to the sounds of Floella threatening to “sue my bony white ass.” For a moment, I experienced a surge of joy because, not in my wildest dreams has anyone ever called my ass “bony” before. Then she phoned the police and that soon wiped the smile off my face. I’m currently trying to stay out of reach of the long arm of the law, not run straight into it. As if I haven’t enough to worry about. I kept out of Floella’s way until the police arrived and I gave my statement to the boys in blue—who weren’t overly interested in Floella’s plight or mine—while trying not to look criminally inclined. I last saw her screeching down the phone at her insurance company as, thoroughly humiliated, I crept away. So—my brief interlude as a personal assistant to a soon-to-be famous fashion designer has come to an abrupt end and, as well as being a bag of nerves, I’m feeling pretty miserable too.
All the members of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club are gathered at Chocolate Heaven on the night of Operation Liberate Chantal’s Jewelry and we’re all showing signs of anxiety. The shop is already closed and we’re the only ones here. Chantal is pacing the floor, Autumn is chanting some sort of hippy mantra, while Nadia nibbles alternately on her nails and a chocolate chip cookie.
Chantal is dressed completely in black and—apart from the fact that the balaclava with little holes for the eyes is missing—she looks as if she’s about to do a bank job. Nadia is wearing jeans and a thuggish-looking jacket. Autumn has gone for a floaty, cheesecloth number and her mass of titian curls are tumbling loosely over her shoulders. I suppose I should have remembered to tell her that if she possessed anything with a vaguely brutish air then she should have worn it. I suspect that not many thieves wear folksinger-style clothing. Still, it will have to do. Time is pressing on and we need to be too.
Our accomplices, Clive and Tristan, are lurking behind the counter looking furtive. As we approach, they put a small box of chocolates on the counter.
“There are twelve chocolates in here, Lucy,” Clive tells me with a serious expression on his face. “Half are drugged with Nadia’s sleeping tablets. We’ve used our house blend of rare Brazilian beans and have crushed the pills into the ganache. They’re flavored with green and black cardamom pods which give a spicy, fresh taste with a hint of smokiness. So they should be undetectable.”
Mmm. The chocs sound great. “How will I know which is which?”
“The clean ones have two ridges on the top. The dodgy ones have three ridges.”
“Clean—two. Dodgy—three.”
“That’s right.”
“Could I just have one to taste?” My hand is slapped away.
“No,” Clive says sternly. “Exercise restraint. And remember, don’t get them mixed up. You’re not the one we want flat out on the ground.”
“I hope we’ve got the quantities right,” Autumn says nervously. “I couldn’t bring myself to ask Richard, he’d have been too suspicious.”
“We used our judgment,” Clive tells us.
“Based on what?”
“Blind ignorance,” he tells me. “Hopefully, we’ve put enough sleeping tablets in the chocolates to knock anyone out for a while.”
“What if you’ve put too many in?”
We all glance at each other anxiously.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I say. When I’m not sure it will be fine at all. “Thanks for making these, guys.”
“I just hope we won’t be enjoying prison food with you at some later date.” Clive clasps a hand to his bosom in a dramatic fashion.
“We’d better be making a move,” Chantal tells us. Her face is white and drawn. “Let’s get this jewelry on you.”
I stand stock-still while she kits me out with all the bling she’s bought. A diamond look-alike necklace, two bracelets and a pair of earrings with what could easily pass as two-carat diamonds dangling from my lobes. “Does it look real?” I don’t have a mirror to check out my appearance.
“I hope so,” Chantal says.
“Pour plenty of drink down him,” Nadia advises. “Then he won’t notice.”
We’re hoping that there’s a lot that our target won’t notice.
“You look fabulous, Lucy,” Autumn breathes.
“Thanks.” I wipe damp palms down my dress. “Let’s hope that someone else thinks so too.”
“Wish us luck, boys,” Chantal says.
Clive and Tristan come from behind their counter and they hug us tightly as if we’re departing on a perilous journey. Which, in some ways, we are.
“Come back safely,” Tristan says. I do believe there’s a tear in his eye.
“We will,” I say stoutly. “This will be a walk in the park.”
“Before that we have a long ride in the car,” Chantal says, looking pointedly at her watch.
As the ringleader, I’m supposed to instill confidence into my cohorts, so I throw back my head and square my shoulders. “Let’s do it, then,” I say.
Chapter Forty-five
I DON’T KNOW WHAT SORT of car Chantal drives,but it’s something expensive and it smells like a new leather handbag. We’re sitting in a tense silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I am clutching the box of doctored chocolates in my lap and I’m going over and over the role I have to play when we get to the hotel. Quite frankly, if I do it again, my head will more than likely explode. I bet the others are doing the same.
“Put something perky on the CD player, Chantal,” I say. “This might be serious, but there’s no need for us to be miserable.”
Chantal slips in a CD and “Walking on Sunshine” rings out. In no time we’re all singing along with Katrina and the Waves as the last of the day’s sun starts to sink toward the horizon. How can we be gloomy with such a great tune belting out? I pull a family-size packet of Maltesers out of my bag— they have been kept nicely chilled by Chantal’s air-conditioning—and hand them around. The mood in the car lifts instantly. Clive would be distraught to see that we were using mass-produced chocolate as our comfort, but sometimes the old favorites just hit the spot like nothing else. A tube of Smarties can transport me back to my primary school in a flash.
We’re onto “Mr. Blue Sky” by the Electric Light Orchestra by the time—an hour later—we reach Trington Manor Hotel. We collectively take a deep breath as Chantal swings in through the tall, wrought-iron gates, the tires of her car crunching on the gravel. It’s nearly showtime and Chantal cuts off the Electric Light Orchestra in their prime.
Trington Manor Hotel is one of those five-star establishments with its own health spa in situ. I gaze in awe at the sheer splendor of the place. It is so out of my price league, you can’t begin to imagine. I fantasize about going to places of this caliber—and not in this particular context. It was always my hope that Marcus would whisk me away to somewhere like this and propose to me. Ah, well. Another dream turned to dust. The night is starting to settle in as we drive up toward the palatial front door.
“My knees are shaking,” Chantal confesses. “I feel as if this guy didn’t just rob me. I feel as if he violated me, even though it was all my own stupid fault.”
I give her knee a gentle pat. “We’ll get your jewelry back for you,” I tell her. “That will at least be some compensation.”
“I hope we can pull this off,” she says with a nervous tremor in her voice. This is the first time I’ve ever seen Chantal’s confidence falter.
Turning in my seat, I address the girls. “We all know what we’ve got to do?”
Nadia and Autumn, in the backseat, nod vigorously. There’s a huge artificial lake outside the front of the hotel and a veritable pod of verdigris dolphins leap from the splashing fountain at the center. We slow down to look for a parking space.
Then Chantal gasps in horror. “That’s him,” she says, pointing ahead of her. “That’s him. Getting out of that white Mercedes.”
We all gape. My word, he’s a handsome beast. Tall, dark, athletically slim. Classic
good looks. No wonder our friend was so keen to get him into her bed. Maybe she shouldn’t be regretting that part of their encounter quite so much. From this distance he doesn’t look like your typical villain. He looks like a babe. There’s a black leather attaché case in his hand and he strides toward the hotel.
“I’d like to bet a hundred bucks that my jewelry’s in that goddamn case,” Chantal observes bitterly.
“Keep your money,” I advise. If all this goes pear-shaped, she’s going to need every penny she can lay her hands on.
“We could just run him over now and grab it,” Nadia suggests.
“That would definitely get us arrested,” I point out. “Besides, we don’t know for sure that Chantal’s stuff is in there.”
Our target has parked facing the lake and we stay still until we’ve watched him go up the broad sweep of steps and into the hotel’s reception, then Chantal slots her car in opposite his.
My role in this heist is to spend my time chatting him up in the bar, giving the rest of the girls time to go up to his room and retrieve Chantal’s jewelry. At the moment, that doesn’t seem too bad a prospect. The drugged chocolates are for emergency backup. The idea is that Chantal is going to be late for her rendezvous with him, but that I’m going to seduce him in the bar and be so charming that he’ll be happy to spend time with me instead. I can do that. Piece of cake. How many men in the past have failed to fall for my feminine charms? Actually, let’s not go there, otherwise my knees will shake even more than they are now. The ten tons of bling that I’m wearing are supposed to act as an extra lure.
“What’s his name?”
“He’s calling himself John Smith.” Chantal raises her eyebrows at me.
“He could have had a sexier pseudonym.”
“I guess so.”
Consulting my checklist, I say, “Phone him and tell him that you’re going to be late and that you want to meet him at the bar.”