‘Whatever. Give it to me and I’ll make sure he gets it back.’ My heart skips a beat, forcing an involuntary cough to escape. ‘We’ve all done it. In fact, you remind me so much of myself at your age. The secret is to not get caught.’ She turns her face towards mine and does a little Joan Holloway pout. ‘Oh, don’t look so worried. Your secret is safe with me. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.’ My heart nose-dives. I can’t bear it. Maxine’s hold grips even tighter now, like a hangman’s noose. And I don’t want to be like her. Participating in mutual back-scratching sessions. Game-playing and manipulating. I feel as though I’m suffocating and there’s no way out of this nightmare that I’ve got myself into.
‘Thank you,’ I say, silently praying the jeweller still has the necklace. I can’t even imagine what she’ll do to me if I fail to produce it.
‘Good, then we’ll say no more about it,’ she says, and I’m sure I detect a hint of satisfaction in her voice. Something else she has over me, and I swear I can feel the pressure of the thumbscrews as she tightens them just a little bit more.
*
The very minute my toe is over the threshold of my doorway I race down the hallway and into the lounge. Panic-stricken, I glance around and catch my reflection in the window. I quickly race over and activate the blind to shield my shame from the lights twinkling outside in the dark. Then, tearing at the bookcase, I manage to retrieve the first card I hid after grabbing and shaking out several books. I’m drenched in sweat, fear gripping my stomach as I run into the kitchen and fling open the freezer door. I grab the tub of ice cream and, after ripping the black masking tape from the lid, I claw at the rock-hard yellow mixture. My fingertips sting as I try and push down further. But it’s no use. I run over to the sink and shove the tub under the hot tap. Eventually the ice cream starts to thaw, and there it is, dazzling like a proud Arabian palace in the desert. The second one that I hid: my gold credit card.
24
I’ve been standing outside the jeweller’s shop since eight a.m. Pressing my nose up to the window, like I have a million times in the last hour as I check for signs of activity, when I suddenly hear the sound of a key. The jeweller comes into view as he ambles through the shadowy shop towards me. As soon as he unbolts the door and flicks on the lights, I tear through into the shop.
‘Whoah! Where’s the fire?’
‘I need the necklace back. Have you still got it?’ I pant, pleading with my eyes for it to be here.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Oh, thank God. Here, you’ll have to spread the cost over these credit cards,’ I puff, shoving them at him. ‘Please, I have to have it straight away,’ I beg, as if getting it back absolves me of ever having sold it in the first place.
‘But I thought you preferred the money?’ he says.
‘I did, but that was then, and things have changed,’ I say, not daring to look him in the eye. I wish he would just get on with it. I didn’t sleep at all last night and my body is trembling with exhaustion. He scribbles on the pad and thrusts it towards me. ‘Hang on. But that’s more than you paid me for it,’ I say, willing the panic to subside.
‘That’s what it’s worth. If you remember, you gave me a discount because I paid you in cash,’ he says, sounding indifferent. I stare at him, unable to get my head around his logic.
‘Yes, but I didn’t give you a discount as such. You told me …’ I attempt to argue my case, but a slow cold trickle of realisation washes over me.
‘Now, if you want to buy it back for cash, then that’s different of course.’ He looks blankly, waiting for my response. I shake my head. This can’t be happening.
‘But I’m not sure the cards will cover that amount though,’ I say, in a hollow voice. I feel so foolish. The money I originally sold the necklace for just about managed to clear the store card and to take my credit cards back to zero.
‘You could finance the shortfall,’ he says, making it sound as though he’s doing me an enormous favour in ripping me off. Tears threaten, and my heart plummets. Not only am I back to square one, but I’m now worse off than I was in the first place and I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s worth it any more. I feel as if I’m drowning. I have to keep my job now, if only to stay afloat, so I nod my head. He scribbles on his pad again and pushes it towards me.
‘That’ll be twelve monthly payments.’
I brace myself before glancing down at the page. Jesus. It’s almost as much as my car loan payments. The floor sways beneath me. I steady myself against the counter.
‘Looks like I don’t have a choice,’ I say, feeling sick and momentarily wondering what would happen if I reached across, grabbed the necklace and legged it as fast as I could. But it’s a ridiculous thought; I’m simply too exhausted even to reach across the desk, let alone run at any kind of speed.
‘Maybe you could get a bank loan,’ he offers, pretending to be helpful.
‘No, I have to have the necklace back today,’ I say, sharply, shuddering at the thought of what will happen to me if I don’t hand it over. So instead I grimace and bear it while he busies himself with the paperwork for the ludicrously extortionate loan, which is probably illegal anyway, but I just don’t have the time to argue with him.
*
After weaving through the traffic on my way to Brighton, I make it into the fast lane of the motorway and push down hard on the accelerator. My head flings back against the headrest, my heart is racing and I can’t seem to stop panicking. The dialogue in my head is driving me mad, over and over, there’s just no let-up. I might have cleared the arrears and missed-payment markers from my credit file, but my mountain of debt is even bigger now. Maybe I could sell the car, but then I remember the outstanding finance figure … it’s at least two grand more than the car is worth, I can’t even afford to do that. My hands are trembling on the steering wheel now and my chest is getting tight. I feel totally overwhelmed, as if everything is going to cave in on me. Tears sting in my eyes, I bite my bottom lip and take a deep breath, desperate for air, but it’s no use, I feel consumed with panic and I don’t feel safe.
The ghastly image of my car careering into the crash barrier flashes before me, so I quickly indicate left and get myself over into the slow lane, before flicking the air con onto maximum. The icy cold breeze fans me, but my skin is still burning with trepidation. And Malikov must have got the necklace back by now. I can barely bring myself to contemplate what he will do to me. He’s bound to think I’ve double-crossed him. See it as a sign of indifference. I just don’t know any more, I can’t get a grip on reality.
I pull over into a lay-by and, after switching off the engine, I glance around the car’s interior. Creamy-coloured soft leather with tan piping. The dashboard with chrome detailing, complete with matching steering wheel, just as I specified. At the time I thought it would make me feel happy, plug the gap left by losing Mum, and then Dad disappearing … but what use is it to me now? I feel trapped. Hot angry tears trickle down my face, slow at first, but fast now, and they won’t stop. My chest heaves, up and down, until I’m sobbing hysterically. I think of Dad and what he did to us, the similarities between his behaviour and mine recently. I should talk to him. Desperation changes people; I can see that now – maybe that’s why he did it. He never really explained, but then I never asked. I vow to call him at the first opportunity.
Eventually, I manage to calm down, and after touching up my make-up, I force myself to get a grip. I make my way off the motorway and out into the countryside, and as green fields replace the hard urban concrete, the tension starts to ease slightly.
*
As I drag my wheelie suitcase across the