Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s (30 page)

‘Tina, this is mad,’ I say, frantically jabbing at the screen with my finger.

‘Oh don’t give me that.’ Tina grabs the phone back from me and is standing even closer now. Her face is red and her neck is developing a blotchy rash that’s spreading like a wild bushfire. I can’t prise my eyes away from her face. It’s as if it’s swelling up right in front of me. For a bizarre moment I imagine it exploding, her Restylane fillers splattering all over me. The eerie silence pulls me back into the moment. Tina is still staring at me, her face triumphant now. As though she thinks she’s won.

‘Tina, I’m sick of this. Do you really think there’s something going on between Ciaran and me? Really, come on, he’s marrying
you
, that must tell you something. Why else would he be doing that? It’s not as though you’ve got a gun to his head. Even you must know how far-fetched this all sounds,’ I say, desperately trying to make her see sense.

‘What do you mean,
even me
? God you are so far up yourself, it’s untrue.’

Tina marches over to the window, her dress making a furious swooshing sound as she moves.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just tired of all this.’

‘I bet you are. Anyone would be, given all your … “extra-curricular” activity, shall we say.’ She gives me a smarmy smile.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, don’t come all innocent with me. Ciaran told me.’

‘Told you what?’

‘That he’s been seeing you.’

‘He actually said those specific words, did he?’ My eyelid twitches. This is insane, why on earth would he say that?

‘Well, he said he’s been staying late practically every night to help out with flyers and promotions and stuff. But I know that’s just a cover – probably didn’t want to hurt me with the actual details of your filthy little affair.’ As the torrent of words comes out, a cold trickle of realisation makes me shiver. If what she says is true, then where has Ciaran really been, because I haven’t seen him staying late after work. Maybe he
has
got another woman on the side, after all, and Tina is convinced it’s me!

‘Anyway, I want you to stop seeing him. Do you hear me? After today, he’ll be a married man and I want you to keep away from him. Don’t talk to him, don’t tweet him, and don’t even look at him. In fact, don’t set foot inside the Cupcakes at Carrington’s café ever again. Do you get it?’ she yells, jabbing a finger in my direction.

‘But that’s ridiculous. We work in the same place, and we’re mates. And my best friend owns the café. Anyway, what does Ciaran have to say about these rules then?’ I ask, wondering if it’s what he wanted to speak to me about the other evening.

‘Nothing. And I don’t want you discussing this with him. Do you hear me?’ She glares at me.

‘Oh I see. So you’re expecting me to just stop talking to him, ignore him. Not visit the café? Is that it?’ I say, not believing that I’m actually discussing this proposition. ‘So how’s that going to work then?’ My blood is pumping even harder now. So Ciaran doesn’t even know about Tina’s demand. It’s ridiculous and it’s not going to happen.

‘Well, you can’t have it all. If you want to take Maxine up on her offer, that is.’

Whaat?
How the hell does she know? Suddenly, a shot of panic billows through me. Dad! What if she knows about that as well?

‘And what does that mean?’ I say, barely able to bring myself to listen to the answer. She taps the mobile a bit more before shoving it at me again. Scrutinising the screen for clues, I feel dizzy and suddenly realise I’ve been holding my breath for a couple of seconds. I take a huge inward breath and release out all of the tension with a big puff.

‘Oh you might huff, madam. But you won’t get away with it.’

‘What do you mean?’ My voice wobbles momentarily and tears sting. I quickly blink to push them away, mentally counting backwards. She’s not going to do this to me. I swallow hard and stare back at her.

‘Well, you’ve broken the law so I’m going to report you, and then you’ll be sacked when the police arrest you.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, what are you going on about now?’ I demand, exasperation burning through me.

‘Oh, I’d watch what I was saying if I were you,
Georgina.
Look here at your Twitter feed.’

Went in a mega-loaded Russian oligarch’s car today. How starry is that? #customerwithasuperinjunction

She lets out a spiteful little giggle.

‘So?’ I say, desperately trying to fathom out where this is going.

‘Is that all you can say? What about the super-injunction?’

‘It’s true. He has,’ I say, feeling nervous now. Maybe I shouldn’t have been quite so specific about his personal business. A momentary lapse; I’m usually so careful about other people’s privacy, knowing first-hand what intrusion feels like. I mentally kick myself.

‘Yes, but nobody is supposed to know. It’s confidential. THAT’S. THE. WHOLE. POINT. OF. THEM,’ she says, emphasising each word in a slow, deliberate voice, like I’m the village idiot. A triumphant smile spreads across her face. ‘So, do you see my dilemma, Georgina?’ There’s a moment of silence, and I know it’s a rhetorical question, but then it dawns on me. So this is why she upgraded my wedding invitation, just so she could play her trump card.

‘You can’t be serious? For God’s sake, Tina, that’s insane.’

‘Is it? Only I think divulging personal information about a Carrington’s private customer having a super-injunction – the simple fact that you’ve told the whole of Twitter it exists – is actually a very serious offence indeed. And well, that’s exactly what you’ve committed, isn’t it? I wonder what Mr Malikov would have to say about this?’ I can feel adrenalin pulsing around my heart. It’s getting faster and faster. The room wobbles, and I clutch at a beechwood cabinet to steady myself. ‘In fact, you’re no better than your father. A criminal. Insider trading. Fraud. And didn’t he take out loans in your name leaving you to pay them?’ I swallow hard. She’s obviously done her homework. I remember a particularly nasty article in a trashy newspaper mentioning this hideous reality at the time. I was nineteen and Dad was out on licence so I didn’t report him, but the bank found out and told the police anyway. He ended up back inside. ‘Bet you’re still paying them off now. What kind of a father does that to his own daughter?’ Tears sting in my eyes. ‘You never know, you might even end up in prison as well.’

A hateful smile spreads across her face, but it quickly diminishes. The ring of her words throws me right back to the playground taunts, as if it happened just yesterday. The court when the guilty verdict was read out. Mum crying, gripping my hand in a desperate attempt to garner a modicum of strength to cope with it all. And that was the pivotal point. The very moment our lives changed forever. Dad went away, Mum died not long after and I was sent to Nanny Jean’s, where I cried myself to sleep every night for over a year.

I step forward and as if in slow motion I reach out to slap her face, but she grabs my wrist and, after twisting it, yanks my arm backwards. The pain is excruciating. I bend over with agony and she leans down so her face is practically pressing into mine.

‘Now you listen to me, you stuck-up bitch. You will keep away from Ciaran. You will not even look in his direction. You will not visit the café where he works. Ever again. You will forget he even exists. And, if you can’t do that, then this phone becomes my insurance, because Ciaran is
my
insurance and I won’t let you steal that away from me.’ She spits every word directly into my face and I contemplate grabbing the phone and deleting the tweet but, as if reading my mind, she carries on. ‘I’ve got a screenshot saved on a memory stick.’ She shoves me away from her.

I clutch my arm, which is throbbing and raw from the embedded prints of her nails, but strangely I feel very calm. I look her up and down, and it’s a look of utter pity.

‘Go to hell, Tina,’ I say, desperately trying to keep the rising fear from my voice. She glares at me, the phone clutched tightly in her balled fist. Her mouth drops open. She closes it and opens it again, in quick succession, like a fish gasping for air. I turn and, hoisting my dress up, I march from the room.

I
will always hate Valentine’s Day from now on. After crashing through the door to the loos, I throw myself into one of the cubicles. Pushing the toilet seat down, I perch on top of it. My hands are shaking as I pull my mobile from my bag. I need to talk to Sam. I find her number in my favourites list and my finger goes to the green call button. But I hesitate, and quickly snap the phone shut. She has enough to deal with. No, I’m doing this on my own now.

I sit for a while, drawing in the silence and running through everything that has happened. And we haven’t even got to the actual wedding part yet. A plan starts to hatch in my head and for the first time since that day in the canteen when Maxine turned up, I can actually think straight. I know what I need to do, but there’s something else I want to do first … something I should have done a long time ago. I flip open my phone to call Dad.

‘Yo go, G. Over here.’ It’s Melissa, and she beckons me over. ‘You’re just in time.’ I scan the lawn. Most of the guests are seated, but there’s a small crowd standing at the back. I make my way over to stand with Melissa. Ciaran is up at the front, turned towards Tina, who is making her way very slowly down the flower-lined aisle in between the rows of chairs. A harp is playing and Tina is taking her time, ensuring everyone notices her, and oh my God … she’s got a pink miniature Shetland pony on a lead, draped in white tulle with a wonky plastic horn perched on the side of its head.

Ciaran’s face is smiling, but he doesn’t look how I’d imagine a groom should look – not that I’ve been to many weddings, so I’m no expert. His eyes are darting through the crowd as if he’s searching for something, or somebody. He looks in my direction and then quickly flicks his eyes away. Eddie is standing next to me. He sniffs loudly to get my attention.

‘Could she take any longer?’ Eddie is twitching all over like an overcharged electricity cable. ‘Yes, yes move along … nothing to see here,’ he says sarcastically and far too loudly.

‘Eddie, what’s got into you?’ I ask, transfixed at the state of him.

‘Nothing,’ he snorts, waving his flute.

‘Ed, you might want to slow down a bit,’ I whisper, leaning in close to him so nobody else can hear.

‘Oh no, the fun hasn’t even started yet,’ he says, as if he knows something I don’t. I tear my eyes away from him and see Tina has made it to the front. The service begins and I’m sure Ciaran sways ever so slightly. I blink and look again, I must be mistaken, and it’s probably just the sun catching in my eyes. The registrar starts the service, and I feel like screaming out ‘yes’ when he gets to the ‘if any person present knows of any lawful impediment’ bit. But Tina being an actual hateful cow probably doesn’t count. They exchange vows, and I’m definitely not mistaken this time.

‘I … err, I …’ Ciaran is definitely swaying, and for a sickening moment I think he actually might keel over. His best man flies up to check he’s OK. I wrestle with my conscience to stifle the voice inside me that wants to scream out ‘don’t do it’, right here in public, but it’s too late. Ciaran makes it through, and now Tina has her lips shoved out for a kiss.

*

Piercing my thoughts, the toastmaster’s booming voice announces the dining hall is now open for the wedding breakfast. I turn and follow the crowd inside.

My head is spinning with thoughts of the promotion now. And James and Tom, and Tina’s sordid blackmail attempt. Fear swirls, but I just have to keep calm. If I think it all through I can make it work, I just know I can.

The chandeliered dining hall is filled to bursting point with circular tables. I manage to find mine, which is unsurprisingly near the fire exit door and at the very back of the room. And furthest away from the top table, which is a miniature version of all the other tables, but with two enormous carved wooden thrones behind it, and it’s perched up on a white, velvet-draped platform.

I study the menu. Grilled Wagyu fillet steak with a marble score of nine, whatever that is, or pan-fried John Dory with a smoked foie-gras mousse and red cabbage. I’m not sure I like the sound of either of them, but then my eyes are drawn down to the Valrhona chocolate soufflé with clotted cream, and I definitely like the sound of that.

I can’t wait for the dinner and the speeches to be over so I can make my excuses and leave. I need time to concentrate after everything that’s happened today. Maxine wants her answer in less than forty-eight hours.

The band is playing again in the corner of the room, filling it with a lively version of ‘My Funny Valentine’, so I try to concentrate on the music instead, just to get some peace for a moment from the chatter inside my head.

Eddie arrives and plonks himself down in the seat on my right, closely followed by James, who, after checking the place cards, sits down on the other side of the table, opposite me. An elderly couple accompanied by a bustling woman, who I presume to be their carer, sits down next to Eddie. I glance to my left and see Melissa’s name on the place card next to me. Then the wine waiter appears.

‘Fish or steak, madam?’ he asks in a bored voice. I opt for the fish and he pours me a generous measure from a bottle of white wine. I take a long mouthful and, after swallowing the fruity liquid, my mind jumps to Maxine and Tina. Once again I’m stuck in a Catch-22 situation. Either way I’m finished. James and Tom will hate me if I become Maxine’s bitch and do what she’s asked. But then the thought of Tina carrying out her threat fills me with a different kind of dread. It’s a tentative threat, but in these privacy-obsessed times of phone hacking and injunctions galore, she could probably make the allegations stick. And if she tells Malikov, I bet he’ll seize the opportunity to punish me for spoiling his scam to launder dirty money through Carrington’s. It would be like a dream come true for him. He gets to ‘defend’ his privacy in public while at the same time milking the kudos of everyone knowing he has a super-injunction, just like all the other ‘important’ people he covets. At the very least that adage of ‘no smoke without fire’ will haunt me forever.