Jane Lambert - The Start of Something Wonderful

The town hall clock is chiming twelve by the time we totter out onto the pavement and giggle our nighty-nights and must-do-this-more-oftens. I jam on my cycle helmet and pedal hard, head bent forward against the needle-sharp rain.

An aeroplane drones overhead, its tail-light blinking in between the squally clouds. I find myself gazing wistfully at it. My mood darkens in that instant.

Where is Nigel right now? In mid-air, or sleeping in a king-size bed in some far-off, exotic land, a nubile, twenty-something by his side? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Does he ever spare a thought for me? What would he make of my new life?

‘Minnie,’ he used to say (Minnie – as in Mouse – was his pet name for me on account of my stick-thin legs and big feet), ‘it’s too late for all that showbiz malarkey. Stay home with me and let’s make a family.’

Why did he only ever say those things after several beers or glasses of red? Had he really wanted children? Or had he been testing me, playing with my emotions? I’ll never know now. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I have a serious, uncomplicated relationship? Is that too much to ask?

An enormous articulated lorry thunders past, drenching me in filthy spray. From somewhere deep inside me, an animal-like scream bursts out, piercing the cold night air.

Come on now. Pull yourself together. YOU ARE A LIBERATED, INDEPENDENT, STRONG WOMAN WITH A GOAL. YOU ARE A LIBERATED, INDEPENDENT, STRONG WOMAN WITH … waterlogged shoes and dripping hair plastered over your eyes.

I feel anything but independent or strong, and my goal now feels a world away. Have I been pitifully naive? No matter, as it’s a little late in the day for doubt and uncertainty. Like it or not, I am now travelling down a one-way street, and the big question is, does it lead to a deadend?

CHAPTER TWO

Diamonds Are a Girl’s Worst Enemy

May

THE BLACK, GAPING ABYSS YAWNS before her, the sharp smell of fuel burning her nostrils. She inhales deeply as she is swallowed up. Her eyes are blinded by the flickering, white lights, her ears deafened by the roar of engines above. She should never have got mixed up in this assignment. Not only was it dangerous, but doomed to failure. She should have walked away from the situation while she still had the chance and suffered the consequences. But there’s no turning back now, so she focuses on the sliver of daylight in the distance. Not much further …

Huffing and puffing, she is spewed out of the tunnel onto the relative calm of the road. She looks up. Terminal Two Departures. She glances at her watch. 0730. Just enough time to make contact, hand over the diamonds, and return to base. Mission accomplished.

No, sadly, I am not on the set of the latest Lynda La Plante thriller; on the contrary, I am starring in my very own drama, entitled Payback Time . And my crime? Smugness – displaying sheer, unadulterated smugness. You know how it is: you dare to pat yourself on the back for a job well done, and next minute, a giant Monty Python foot appears from above and squishes you into the ground. That will teach you for being so damned pleased with yourself!

Determined to win over Miss Cutler, who is on the verge of firing me on account of my poor sales record, I scrambled together an emergency marketing strategy, which happened to involve a bearded Scotsman and a one-thousand-five-hundred-pound diamond necklace …

‘I’m looking for something a teensy-weensy bit special,’ the unsuspecting browser had informed me as he entered the shop. ‘It’s my wife’s fiftieth tomorrow, and she’s feeling …’ he looked around cautiously, checking he wouldn’t be overheard ‘… the change ,’ he mouthed exaggeratedly. ‘I’d like something with a wee bit of sparkle to cheer her up.’

‘I see,’ I whispered back discreetly. Here was my chance! Opening one of the cabinets, I said, ‘How about this pastel gem-set bracelet? Notice how it shimmers with all the colours of the rainbow.’ I tilted it back and forth, so the stones’ reflection danced tantalisingly around the walls, like a kaleidoscope.

‘I was thinking of something a bit simpler,’ he said.

‘Aah,’ I nodded, undeterred. ‘Well, in that case, how about this nine-carat gold pendant, hand-crafted in Italy?’

‘Erm …’

‘Or this eighteen-carat belcher-bar necklace? Its extra length means it can be worn as a belt, a choker, or a layered necklace,’ I gushed, whilst demonstrating its many uses, just like I’d seen those shopping channel presenters do. ‘Layered jewellery is featured on all the major catwalks this season, so your wife would be up to the minute with the latest fashion.’ He bit his lip.

I could feel Miss Cutler’s x-ray eyes burning through my head from behind the two-way mirror in the back office.

Please, God, let me make a sale.

‘Let me see now …’ I said, brain racing, eyes darting wildly about. ‘Aha, I know the very thing!’ I launched into the window, swiping a fourteen-karat, white gold, diamond choker from the black velvet display stand. ‘What woman wouldn’t feel a million dollars wearing this?’ I glanced at the clock – 5.26 p.m. – just four minutes to closing time; four minutes to save myself from the dole queue.

‘… and … and Princess Diana wore the exact same style of choker when she took to the dance floor with John Travolta at The White House in the mid-Eighties,’ I added quickly.

He toyed with his beard.

‘A high point in her short life,’ I whispered sombrely.

‘It’s a wee bit more than I intended spending …’ he said pensively, as he peered at the price tag.

‘Reaching fifty is quite a milestone,’ I replied, in a kind of cool, throwaway tone, shamelessly swaying the dazzling diamonds in front of his eyes, like a hypnotist’s pendulum, hope hovering.

He glanced at his watch: 5.28. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead.

‘I’m catching a flight to Edinburgh in the morning, and I suppose a box of Milk Tray from WHSmith’s wouldn’t go down very well.’ He sighed, fishing out his wallet, resigned.

‘Absolutely not,’ I squeaked, snatching his credit card before he had time to change his mind. I snapped shut the leather presentation case. Placing it carefully under the counter, I coolly sashayed over to the cash desk, struggling to quash my overwhelming desire to do a Highland fling right there, on the shop floor.

Transaction completed, I carefully gift-wrapped the box, not forgetting the curly-wurly ribbon effect with the scissors, which I did with a dramatic flourish.

‘Thank you, miss. You’ve been very helpful. I cannae wait to see Morag’s face the morrow when I get hame.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. Have a good flight back. Ooops! You dropped this,’ I said, handing him his air ticket and opening the door.

He kissed my hand as he exited. Yesssssssss!

In buoyant mood, I waltzed around the floor with the vacuum cleaner, singing to myself as I went. Saved from the humiliation of begging for an overdraft increase – again. From now on Miss Cutler would realise I was an asset to the shop and would be devastated when I inevitably had to give up my retail career for that of a West End star.

Then all at once Henry Hoover died. I spun round, and there stood Cruella, her head shaking.

‘Ah-hem! What is this, Emily?’ she asked coldly, holding up one of the presentation cases.

‘A jewellery box.’ I shrugged.

‘That is where you are wrong, Emily. This is no ordinary jewellery box,’ she snarled, face blazing, the veins in her swan-like neck pulsating madly. I stared at her, puzzled.

‘This is a jewellery box that contains …’ she said, milking every moment of her Wicked-Witch-of-The-West performance ‘… a very valuable item belonging to your customer!’