Vikki

"What do you mean, there's no appointment?" I ask the incredibly snooty man at the "personal shopper" desk of Harridges, the especially upmarket department store I've been brought to. "Check again. It should be for ‘Victoria Graham.'"

He looks me up and down, and frankly, I want to punch him in his smug face. He might be nicely done up in a dove grey frock coat, but he looks like a Downton reject. And someone has surely told him not to judge a book by its cover?

I'm beginning to regret my choice of outfit. I probably should have gone full Daryl Hannah in Splash and put on one of Max's suits. But then I'm not a tall, willowy blonde, so I doubt I could have carried it off. Plus, I'd have actually drowned in one of his huge suits.

I glare at the concierge who, having given me a final sniff, decides I'm not worthwhile bothering with and goes back to his newspaper.

I am so angry, I could cry. The car isn't supposed to pick me up for the next two hours. I have no money and I don't know what to do in this super expensive place. Somewhere I'd only ever visit for the experience, to let the feeling of money roll over me, to see how the other half live.

Stifling a sniffle, I walk away from the desk and back out into the women's wear department. If I can't get Mr. Snooty to believe I'm worth bothering with, there's no way any of the perfectly made up, expensively dressed shop assistants are going to agree to charge anything to Max's account.

I am well and truly stuffed. The last thing I want to do is call Peter, given he's so bloody efficient, to tell him my woes. But I also don't want to go back to the vast apartment empty-handed and show Max I'm a failure.

Because I'm not. I'm just unlucky.

I find a seat between some racks of clothing and sink down. I can't mess up again.

In my hand, my phone rings. I look at the screen eagerly, in case it's Peter. But it's not. It's my landlord.

"Where's my rent, bitch?" His plummy tones are at odds with his potty mouth, and he's continuing in the vein of the text messages I got this morning.

"I emailed you," I say. "I've got a job. I get paid at the end of the month, and I'll give you everything I owe."

"Fuck you. I only agreed to rent the place to you because you looked half decent and I thought you might be prepared to put that pretty mouth to good use, but you're not even at the house to offer to pay your debt another way," he spits.

My stomach goes to my boots. What little I ate this morning threatens a reappearance. I'm one hundred percent sure Lord Bisleh is being genuine. He'd make me degrade myself in order not to get thrown out of my home.

Then he'd always have one over me. Always.

"I promise I'll have the money at the end of the month. Please," I plead, hating myself, hating the whine in my voice. "You will get paid."

The line goes dead. My head swims with fear and anxiety. I try to call him back, but it only goes to voicemail.

I'm stuck in this stupid store, with no means whatsoever of getting home to save my stuff. Bisleh is going to light it all on fire in the front garden. I'll lose everything.

My phone rings again. I answer without even looking at the screen.

"Thank god, please…" I sob.

"Peter's had a call from the personal shopper, why aren't you there for your appointment?" Max growls. "And what's wrong?"The growl deepens.

It takes me more than a second to retrieve my voice.

"The personal shopping service claims there's no appointment. They won't let me in. I'm stuck here," I garble out through tears.

"Stay there," Max says. "I'm coming to get you."