Christmas at Claridge's by Karen Swan

reversing in the road provided any soundtrack.
    ‘That was Perignard.’ His voice had flatlined. ‘They’re pulling the project.’
    Clem’s hands flew to her mouth and Simon had to steady himself by grabbing the nearest desk.
    ‘But we’re going into production in twelve days,’ Simon said, almost laughing at the preposterousness of Tom’s words.
    ‘Not any more we’re not,’ Tom said, shaking his head.
    ‘But we’ve been working exclusively on this for the past year,’ Simon argued, his Celtic colour beginning to rise. ‘We’ve ploughed everything into getting the new
machines manufactured. We’ve got a contract.’
    ‘They would argue that we’re in breach of that contract.’
    ‘How?’ Simon asked, growing redder in the face. ‘Everything’s ordered and being shipped as we speak. We’re bang on schedule and cost. I don’t
understand.’
    Tom drew his lips into a thin line, his eyes unable to meet Clem’s, and she saw the tic quiver in his cheek. It was because of her, she realized. What she’d done.
    ‘Could someone please tell me what’s going on?’ Simon demanded into the vacuum.
    Without saying a word, Clem crossed the room and pulled the sheet off the bike. Simon almost howled as he caught sight of it. ‘It’s my fault,’ she said quietly, meeting all
their eyes.
    ‘What did you do?’ Pixie whispered, walking over practically in a trance.
    ‘I fucked up.’
As usual,
she didn’t need to add.
    An appalled silence followed.
    ‘You all know that this was the showpiece for the new Dover Street store,’ Tom said quietly.
    ‘It’s the window display; Perignard’s had state-of-the-art glass fitted especially so that anything short of a tank couldn’t get past,’ Pixie said proudly her
eavesdropping having paid off. ‘With all the passing traffic, it’s an invaluable branding opportunity for us.’
    ‘Was,’ Tom corrected quietly.
    ‘No, no, hang on!’ Simon interjected agitatedly, his quick mind racing. ‘This doesn’t just affect Perignard. What about Berlin? We were going to unveil it to the trade in
Berlin next week! It’s supposed to showcase the new technologies we’ve invested in. How can we do that now when the bike’s . . .?’ Words failed him as he looked at it,
visibly paling as he took in the scale of destruction.
    ‘It’s clearly unusable in this condition,’ Tom said quietly. ‘Or, to quote Perignard, “not fit for purpose”. And they’re right.’
    ‘But surely we can repair it before next week?’ Pixie squeaked, looking at the bent spokes on the front wheel, where someone had squeezed in some bottles of Stoli, as though it was
an obscure bottle rack.
    Simon gave her a withering stare. ‘The bike is vintage, so everything on it is made to bespoke dimensions. We’ve had it plated in
rose gold.
And if I told you that I was
practically standing over the calf at birth, that would still be making light of the lengths I went to, to source the slink saddle leather.’
    ‘Oh.’
    They all stared at the trashed bike despondently.
    ‘Do they want the diamonds back?’ Pixie asked.
    ‘Obviously,’ Simon snapped.
    Clem could see Tom stretching his lips thin, trying to keep control of his emotions.
    ‘Can’t we just, y’know, regroup and get everything ready for Berlin
next
year?’ Pixie suggested, relentlessly optimistic.
    Tom inhaled deeply and slowly. ‘For one thing, our competitors will have caught up with us by then. At the moment we have the patent on the technology, but it’s already an arms race
and I know for a fact that Hermès is maybe only two months behind us. This is our USP, and we banked on it being our springboard into the next tier, offering a deluxe product that no one
else could bring to the table. It was what made us stand out for the Bugatti contract.’
    Clem’s head snapped up. She hadn’t heard anything about Bugatti before now.
    ‘Bugatti? What? Like the cars?’ Pixie chirruped.
    ‘Exactly like that,’