‘At least we can replace those,’ she said tearfully. ‘But my lamps!’
Beautiful vintage pieces had been wilfully wrecked. The police had little interest in the case, giving her the distinct impression that they thought she was foolish for placing such temptation in the way of people who could hardly be expected to do otherwise than help themselves.
Then, she had to go away: she had to get back to Paris for various social events and there was the Laksi wedding in Delhi to attend. Her mother was getting tetchy about the fact that Romily had been away for so long. She asked Muffy to run the shop in her absence and hired a girl to be the sales assistant but, without Romily to oversee everything, it turned into a disaster. Muffy kept forgetting to open the shop at all, and when she did it would be for a few hours in the afternoon, when she could fit it into her hectic social life. Sales plummeted and the stock looked old, dusty and neglected.
‘I don’t understand it!’ Romily exclaimed when she got back and looked over the books. ‘We’ve made nothing at all … we’ve hardly sold anything. In the first few weeks, we made thousands. Now we’re making nothing. How can that be?’
Muffy looked gloomy. ‘No one’s coming in, darling. It’s deserted. The girls have all done their duty – they all came by at the start and bought something. Now they’re busy with other things.’
‘Don’t we have any other customers apart from our friends?’ demanded Romily.
‘It doesn’t look like it,’ Muffy replied, glancing at her manicure. ‘And to be honest, honey, I don’t know how much longer I can help out. I’m so busy! And I’m off to Mustique for three weeks. Maybe we’d better count me out from now on.’
Romily couldn’t blame her. Muffy had only been helping out on a temporary basis. She could hardly be expected to devote herself to Cherub’s success. So Romily soldiered on alone. Every day, her driver brought her down town from the Fifth Avenue apartment and she opened the shop, sat around, made phone calls, ordered in her lunch, sat around, then closed up the shop and was taken back uptown by her
driver
. Occasionally a customer came in, wandered around and then left. Once in a while, someone bought something, but it was a rare occurrence.
I don’t understand it
, she told herself, glancing round at all the lovely things.
It’s all so stylish and so covetable, and reasonably priced as well. People come in, look at the stock and then leave! Why aren’t they buying?
Then the shop had been robbed for a second time, and now here they were again, picking their way through the wreckage. She had called Muffy because she hadn’t known who else to ring, and her friend had come down right away.
‘I’m beginning to wonder if this is worth all the effort,’ Romily sighed. ‘It’s just heartbreaking. Don’t people round here have any respect for other people’s property?’
‘Maybe you should have gone more uptown,’ remarked Muffy, dipping her dark glasses so she could inspect the mess more closely. ‘After all, people prefer class in the end.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Romily put her hands on her hips and looked about. ‘Well, we’d better get on with clearing up.’
‘Are you going to call the police?’ Muffy asked.
‘There doesn’t seem any point. They didn’t care much the last two times and I don’t think it’s going to be any different now. I guess I’ll have to, though, so I can talk to the insurers again. They’re not going to be happy.’
Muffy picked up a bag of rubbish. ‘I’ll put this out.’
‘OK.’ Romily retrieved a torn silk dress from the floor and gazed at it, wondering whether it could be mended or if it was now only good for cutting up for scarves. A moment later she heard a small crash from the back room, followed by a squeak. ‘Muffy?’ she called. ‘What’s up?’
She went back through to the stock room. The back door was open and standing in it was a wild-eyed white boy, with terrible spotty skin and a crew cut that had left ginger
stubble
all over his skull. He looked filthy and frightened in an overlarge baseball jacket and baggy jeans. His hand was trembling so hard that the gun he was pointing at Muffy was veering to right and left.
Romily gasped and the boy jumped, swinging the gun over so that it was aimed at her, and then pulled it back towards Muffy again.
‘OK,’ he said in a high voice. ‘You gotta gimme your money.’
Stay calm
, Romily told herself.
Don’t panic
. Everything had slowed down and her mind, though working fast, seemed to be taking it step by step. Beneath her fear, she felt angry.
Not again! This is crazy!
‘We don’t have any money,’ she said curtly. ‘The shop has already been turned over. There’s nothing left. The register is empty – hell, the register has disappeared!’
‘I don’t care about that,’ the boy said, waving the gun jerkily in her direction. ‘I don’t want that shit. Been through it already. There’s nothing worth crap in there. Whatchu got?’
Romily stared at him. Muffy seemed to be frozen with fear.
The boy narrowed his eyes. ‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘I don’t have no time to waste here! Gimme your stuff! I’m not afraid to shoot.’
At this Muffy appeared to come to life. She began to undo her watchstrap and take off her rings, her fingers clumsy with fright. ‘Here you are, you can take this,’ she jabbered. ‘It’s a Rolex. I got it for my twentieth. And these are real diamonds in this ring, you can have it …’
Romily turned to her. ‘Muffy!’
‘Shut your mouth!’ The boy swung the squat nose of the gun back towards her. Romily felt nausea at the sight of its vacant black barrel. ‘This lady wants to give me her stuff. Get yours off too. I can see some nice hardware on you.
And
give me your purses. Now!’
‘My purse is in the shop,’ Romily said. ‘Can I go and get it?’
‘Get it, but don’t try anything or you’ll regret it.’
Romily edged towards the door.
This is my chance
. But her chance to do what? Call the police? The phone had been ripped out of its socket and there was no time to reconnect it. Hope that a customer would come in? What good would that do?
‘Go on!’ shouted the boy. ‘Don’t try and mess with me! I know how to use this thing and I’m not afraid to – I’ve used it before!’
Muffy was shaking hard, pushing her things at him. ‘Take them, take them!’ she said. ‘Please, just let us go. Don’t hurt us.’
The boy snatched the jewellery from her hand and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘I want cash too,’ he called out. ‘And cards. Anything you got.’
Romily went slowly into the shop. Their bags were sitting neatly under the counter: her cherry-red Hermès Birkin alongside Muffy’s neat Dior black purse. She picked them up and turned back to the stock room.
‘Come on, come on,’ yelled the boy. ‘I don’t want to hang around.’ He saw Romily coming back with the bags and his face brightened. ‘That’s what I’m talking about. Open ’em up.’
Romily knelt down with them. She had been contemplating throwing them in his face to startle him and then trying to get the gun off him, but she put that idea out of her mind now. The boy was so tense he’d shoot them in an instant without even meaning to. And Muffy was shivering with fear, her teeth chattering. There was no way Romily could depend on her for anything. It was better to let this little criminal take their stuff.
‘Open them,’ ordered the boy. ‘Nice and slow so I can see what you’re taking out …’
Romily couldn’t restrain herself from saying acidly, ‘We don’t have any guns, you know. We’re not really like that.’ She took out Muffy’s lizard-skin wallet bursting with credit cards and tossed it towards him. It skittered across the floor and came to a halt at his feet.
Not bad. My old PE mistress would be most impressed
.
He picked it up greedily. ‘Now the other one.’
She reached into her Birkin, feeling for her Gucci wallet, wishing she didn’t have to hand it over. It wasn’t so much the money and cards inside, though she hated to give her possessions to a criminal, it was the other things: her photos of her mother and father and brother; the picture taken in a passport booth of her, Imogen and Allegra playing up for the camera on a trip to London; the used tickets and receipts that she’d kept because they reminded her of special occasions. But she didn’t have a choice.
‘Here.’ She took it out and threw it at his feet.
At that moment, the room was filled with a strange piercing beep. The boy, strung so tight with nerves, almost leapt into the air. The beep sounded again and now, with a startled yelp, he tightened his finger on the trigger.
Time wound down to the slowest motion possible. The beep echoed round and round the stock room. Romily saw the boy’s hand swing higher, put up her own hand and shouted, ‘No, it’s a cellphone, it’s a cellphone!’ but her voice came out far too slowly to make a difference. The finger pressed inexorably down. There was a flash of fire from the snout of the gun, then another, then another. Three loud reports filled the room with thunder.
There was a terrible scream and Muffy wavered in mid-air then fell to the ground like a building being demolished, its lower strata vanishing, bringing everything down with it in graceful, inevitable collapse.
Chapter 25
Oxford
THE ROOM WAS
filled with a menacing silence. The two proctors sat behind a long table, papers in front of them, making notes. They were wearing their official garb of black suits and academic gowns with fur-lined hoods.
It must be hot in that get up
, thought Allegra. She held her hands tightly together in her lap and tried not to fidget.
One of them, a stiff-looking woman with short brown hair, looked up. ‘So, Lady Allegra, we just want to go through events one more time. I’m sure you understand a serious allegation has been made. It’s important that we are completely clear on what occurred.’
Allegra stiffened her spine and sat up even straighter, staring the proctor right in the eye. ‘Certainly,’ she said coolly.
‘As you know, we have witnesses who state that on the morning you missed your first paper in the Honour Moderations, an undergraduate was seen going into your rooms. That undergraduate was wearing sub fusc and had in all likelihood been sitting an examination that morning. Our witness says that the undergraduate – a female – stayed about half an hour and then left. Not long afterwards, you yourself emerged, also in sub fusc, and made your way to Schools. There, you explained that you’d missed the examination due to ill health and asked to be allowed to sit
it
that afternoon. You undertook that you had seen no one in that time and certainly no other undergraduate who had taken the paper. Is that true?’
The proctors fixed her with their icy stares and waited for her reply.
Allegra remembered how she’d had no hesitation in lying to the officials and that, when they’d believed her story, she’d felt triumphant. It was a different matter altogether to sit here in complete sobriety, far from the drama and chemically induced emotions of that day, and repeat the lie.
The proctor turned over the sheet of paper in front of her. ‘You see, Lady Allegra, your marks for the examinations were not at all distinguished. They were, one might say, bad. You would have failed, but for one thing. You scored highly enough on your translation paper to scrape over the pass mark. That Anglo-Saxon paper saved you. Now we have this allegation. When you claimed you had seen no one, you were given the benefit of the doubt. Were we right to do so?’
Tell them the same story
, she urged herself.
Defend yourself! Lie to them!
But she couldn’t. She’d been brought up to be honest, and in this formal situation, with its trial-like atmosphere, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Who saw Imogen?
she wondered.
And who the hell wanted to grass me up?
But she knew that there were plenty of people who envied or hated her, and would be glad of the chance to pull her down. She could only be grateful that whoever it was had not recognised Imogen.
She opened her mouth. Her university career trembled on the brink. Would she save it or let it go? The moment seemed to hover for a long time before she said, ‘I did see another undergraduate that morning.’
‘I see.’ The proctor sat back with a satisfied smile, obviously pleased that she had trusted her instinct.
‘An undergraduate who had sat the paper that morning?’ asked the other, a man with small, close-set eyes and a beard.
Allegra looked at him, her head high. ‘Yes.’ She couldn’t lie – dishonesty seemed impossible in this situation. She was far too proud to sit here making up falsehoods to protect herself; she’d screwed up and now she’d have to take whatever consequences were coming her way.
The proctors exchanged glances with each other, and the bearded man put his pen down on the table.
‘Lady Allegra, you must be aware that the university takes the most serious view of cheating. If someone gave you an unfair advantage in this examination, it is cheating, pure and simple. Did this person alert you to the contents of the paper?’
Allegra stared back at him and breathed deeply. Then she said, ‘I dispute that I had an unfair advantage over any other candidates. I wasn’t at all well’ –
The fact that it was self-inflicted is beside the point
, she told herself – ‘and I could barely see straight or think coherently. But I still wanted to take the examinations if I possibly could, which is why I turned up, despite feeling so awful. I could hardly gather my thoughts in English, let alone Anglo-Saxon.’
‘That is not relevant. Every other student went into that examination unaware of the contents of the paper. If you knew in advance what would be there, you had an unfair advantage, and that is cheating.’
Fury filled her. It wasn’t as black and white as it seemed, she was sure of it, but she felt powerless to argue her case.
‘I take your silence as acknowledgement of guilt,’ said the proctor. ‘This is very serious. I’m sure you’re aware of the consequences of cheating in university examinations. We will need to consult your tutors and the Rector of your college. In some cases, however, we are able to issue fines and allow an undergraduate to resume their course. We would consider this option on condition that you give us the
name
of the undergraduate who told you the contents of the paper.’