‘If you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ I say, managing a weak smile.
‘OK, so we know that Malikov likes his toys then,’ he says in a low voice, thoughtfully bringing us back on topic.
We reach the personal shopping suite and James pushes through the creamy white padded door into the little anteroom that smells of lilies and expensive perfume.
‘OK, you ready for this?’ he whispers while checking his cufflinks. I nod. ‘Great – knew I could count on you,’ he says, enthusiastically, and I smile at his praise.
Inside, and standing by the floor-to-ceiling chiffon-covered window is a sturdy-looking man yelling Russian into a hands-free mobile phone. As we walk towards him he snatches the earpiece away and tosses it towards the three enormous men wedged on a cream leather sofa, all wearing identical black suits. The one on the end performs a sudden pincer movement to successfully catch the earpiece. James dashes over to greet our customer.
‘Mr Malikov, welcome to Carrington’s.’
Ignoring James’s outstretched hand, he commands, ‘Let’s shop,’ in a gravelly voice that has an American-English accent. He’s dressed casually in chinos with a navy blazer over a canary-yellow polo shirt with a ridiculous paisley cravat. He limps towards the enormous overstuffed circular sofa in the centre of the room, slumps down and rests both hands on a carved, tiger-headed cane that has a ruby the size of a plum wedged inside the tiger’s roaring mouth. Lifting his wrist, he squints at a platinum jewelled watch. ‘I have twenty minutes before I leave for the opera. Do you like opera?’ he barks. James and I exchange glances. Twenty minutes! We better get on with it if we’re to stand any chance of securing a big sale and earning some much-needed commission.
‘Well, sailing is my thing,’ James replies, calmly, as though he has all the time in the world. I smile inwardly, knowing how he hates water, preferring his beloved cricket to anything that might involve getting wet.
‘A man after my own heart.’ Malikov hauls himself up, grabs James’s hand up from his side and pumps his arm vigorously. We’re all smiling. So far so good. I feel relaxed. ‘And what, Miss, do you like?’ Malikov says, suddenly and suggestively. He wets his lips before slowly turning a pair of shark-like eyes towards me. I wither under his scrutiny as I rack my brains, searching for a suitable response. It’s as if time has stood still. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the heavies holding out a glass of champagne. Malikov is distracted. He turns to take the flute and gulps it down in one. The feeling of relief is overwhelming.
‘So how was your maiden voyage aboard He Who Dares?’ I ask, steering the conversation away from me and James’s faux love of the sea. Malikov’s hand is the size of a shovel and with a vice-like grip.
‘I see you’ve done your homework.’ Looking impressed, he nods his head slowly. ‘Kon. You must call me Kon. It’s what the people I like call me.’ His gaze lingers for a moment, sending a chill right through me. His power fills the room, practically overpowering the glorious scent from the three Jo Malone candles flickering on a white lacquered table nearby. Eventually Malikov drops my hand and I feel the blood rushing back into my aching palm as I wonder what the people he doesn’t like get to call him … if anything at all.
‘OK Kon, if you’re sure you don’t mind,’ I smile, and he tilts his glass up towards me like a tick of approval. ‘And how are you settling in to your new home here in England?’ I add, trying to relax and get into the swing of things.
‘It’s adequate,’ he shrugs, waving a hand in the air. ‘A kennel compared to my home in Moscow.’ He juts his head up. ‘There I have a house as big as your Queen Elizabeth’s Buckingham Palace,’ he adds with all the attitude of a movie Mafioso.
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ I simper, being careful not to overdo it, but knowing the fawning process is the most crucial part of the personal shopping experience. Private customers want to feel special and taken care of. And why not? They’re just like any other customer at the end of the day – only with stacks more money, obviously.
‘You must come and see it sometime.’ He fixes his eyes on me again and I glance towards James.
‘Well, I’d have to see what the boss says of course …’ I venture, playing along with his flirtation. He studies me for a moment, as if peeling my clothes off with his eyes. Then he tugs at the side of his jacket, making it flap open momentarily, and I catch a glimpse of a handgun inside a tan leather shoulder holster. His eyes meet mine.
‘I am a businessman, business is dangerous in Russia,’ he says by way of explanation. I quickly tear my eyes away.
‘Who’s your best customer?’ Malikov asks suddenly.
‘Mr Malikov, I’m sure you’ll appreciate that it would be totally unprofessional of me to break any customer confidentialities,’ James says smoothly, knowing it’s more than his job’s worth to name any names. The Heff is very particular about discretion. Only a few weeks ago he had a go at one of the boys in Menswear for sniggering in the canteen after catching a glimpse of a well-known MP in one of the changing rooms. Under his rotund belly, the MP was working skimpy leopard-print Speedo-style budgie smugglers while admiring himself doing a pretend dive in the mirror.
Thinking of the gas bill that needs paying urgently, I launch in. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this …’ I hesitate, before lowering my voice. James flashes me a warning look but he doesn’t need to worry. ‘One of the Queen’s relatives was a virtual fashion recluse before we kitted him out in the finest menswear, so please be assured you’ll be joining an elite group within British high society,’ I say, amazed at my own nerve.
‘What club does he belong to?’ Malikov interrupts, rudely.
‘Mr Malikov, I’m not sur—’ He cocks his head to one side. ‘Sorry. Kon,’ I correct myself. ‘I’ve said far too much already. But let’s just say he’s definitely back on the society circuit now, according to last week’s …’ I hesitate momentarily and flick my eyes over to the pile of glossy magazines artfully fanned on a coffee table for inspiration. ‘… Hello! magazine,’ I quickly add. Malikov’s eyes widen and he nods his head slowly. ‘And I could always investigate the possibility of a discreet introduction to him … say on the polo field.’ His nodding head speeds up at the prospect of mixing in such elite circles.
‘What did he buy?’ He stares directly at James, who doesn’t flinch. ‘Well, I’m sure you will appreciate that Carrington’s prides itself on offering a very personal serv—’
‘Yes, yes, I know all of that. I’ve done my checks so you can cut the flimflam. What’s the most expensive thing you have?’ he asks, waving a dismissive hand in the air.
‘Well I know you’ve mentioned an interest in jewellery …’ James takes a step towards a glass display cabinet housing Carrington’s fine jewellery collection, before he’s cut off again. Malikov juts his head forward.
‘That’s because I own a platinum mine. Won it on a hand of roulette last month. Uranium too,’ he chortles. Raising a hand, he bats the air around in front of him before continuing, ‘So let’s hope there’s another war somewhere so demand for uranium from the arms manufacturers increases.’ He snorts at his own sick joke, while James and I drag smiles onto our faces.
After showing him each of the bags I brought up earlier and talking him through the quality of craftsmanship, I bide my time as James tells him about the new Spring/Summer collection, prices, styles, and even manages to squeeze in a mention of the Chiavacci bags. A short silence follows.
‘No, that is not acceptable. I can go to any shop and get the same prices, so you will need to do better than that.’ His chubby paw tightens around the tiger’s head. James gives me a look and I’m off again.
‘Kon. Of course you’re absolutely right. Some of