THIRTY
Fifteen stores, twenty-two bags, and five pairs of shoes. The pile grows so conspicuous that it becomes a safety issue and is commandeered by our suit-wearing shadow protectors. A muscular, bearded suit by the name of Cas, rolls his eyes at me as he picks up the latest of Sylvie’s acquisitions.
“Is she done now?”
“God, I hope so, Cas. My feet are killing me, and no amount of fancy coffee is going to make up for the embarrassment of having all those people seeing me mostly naked.” I wince at the thought of the shop assistants and personal dressers that Sylvie sent in to help me try all the clothes she wanted me to model. Turns out, Sylvie’s idea of an apology involves using me as her own personal dress-up doll.
I glance over to the corner where Sylvie chats into her glittery-pink phone. She dances around absentmindedly, lifting onto her tiptoes and performing mini pirouettes at breaks in the conversation. She’s light on her feet and more like a doll than I could ever be. Her thick, curled, black hair hangs in swathes down her back. She flicks it back behind her ear and looks over to find Cas and I watching her. She lifts a single finger and mouths, ‘Sorry,’ before falling back into conversation.
“She’s hard work,” Cas admits.
“She is.” I’ve just learned first-hand how demanding she can be. Where I insisted on grabbing a new pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts, counting the totals in my head so I could pay her back with my meagre stash, she vetoed that and bought out half of the boutiques on The Walk—the most exclusive shopping district in Harrison Heights. Even Cas and the car full of bodyguards aren’t out of place here.
“She’s a sneaky one. She likes to disappear for a day here and there. If she pulls that kind of shit today, Dax will have our heads,” he warns.
I snort. Cutting Cas a break, I let him in on a secret he probably already knows. “Dax has me tagged, but if she gets any ideas, I’ll give you guys a wave.”
“I’d appreciate that, Miss Girard.”
“No problem, and please call me Jules. Miss Girard is too weird. It doesn’t sound right.” I pull absentmindedly at a thread in the widening hole in my shirt.
“I understand. Well, this is the last load for now. Good luck, Jules.” He lifts the bags in both hands.
“Thanks, Cas. Here, do you or the boys want this?” I push the rich, dark, eastern-European coffee at him. It has all manner of extras in it that should never be paired with coffee. Nutmeg and chilli powder and some kind of berry.
“There’s a grate behind that plant.” He nods to one of the two pretty lemon trees flanking the door. “Tip it out before she comes back.” He leaves with a friendly smirk and wink. I shoot a glance at Sylvie, who has stopped dancing and appears to be wrapping up her call.
Draining the chili-spiced concoction, I land in my seat just as Sylvie slips the phone into her pocket and walks back to the table.
“Wow, did I take that long? You’re done already? Let me get you another.” She raises her long-tapered fingers and wiggles them at the server inside.
“Actually, I’m pretty tired. Do you think we could call this a day?”
“Oh.” Her face falls. Guilt stirs in my gut. She’s been generous to me today, and even if I don’t want a single thing she’s insisted on buying, I also don’t want her to think I’m ungrateful.
But this entire trip is an exercise in indulgence and gluttony.
No one needs this many items, or to spend such a degree of cash buying them. My family of six lives on less a year than Sylvie spends in a day and worse, she’s spending much of it on me. Are the twins struggling? Is Casey eating? Is my mother scrounging for work? And Carlo…what about everything Carlo lost because of me? Something as frivolous as a shopping trip isn’t going to make me feel better about that.
I look up to find Sylvie staring at me. “What’s wrong? You look upset.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve had a lovely day, and you have been really kind…” I shake my head and suck in a breath. I won’t hurt her feelings, but I won’t lie either. “I’m worried about my family. I don’t know where they are or when I’ll see them again. I don’t know if they are safe or if they have enough money to survive. The kids…” I swallow a thick lump that lodges in my throat.
“I understand. You feel guilty.”
“Yeah.”
“They have your mum?”
“And Carlo.”
“And Aiden?”
“For now.”
“Then Dax is taking care of them. You don’t need to worry. But you need taken care of too. You have one set of ripped clothing,.” She eyes the hole I’ve been picking at. “No money. Nowhere to go. You have to be your priority for a little while, and sure, I could have taken you to a department store and picked up everything in one place for far less, but I owe you something nice; something special just for you. It’s okay to be spoiled at least once in your life. Plus, it doubles as my apology. I mean, I was out of order yesterday.”
She was a complete bitch yesterday, but I understood. If Dax was mine, I’d protect him too. And sure, if all this money was mine, I’d probably warn a bitch to back the hell off that too.
Excuses aside, though, is she right? Is it okay to enjoy such frivolity even with the uncertainty that lies ahead? She’s supplied me with a new wardrobe that I could make last for years if I’m careful about it. The day hasn’t been all bad either. Sylvie is intense, but she’s funny and has great taste, if you don’t count the coffee.
“I mean, I bought myself at least three times the amount that you let me grab for you.”
That’s true. Of the dozens of bags we’d surrendered to the guys, only three of them were mine. “Okay,” I give in. “Thank you.”
“Actually, that’s my line. I haven’t gone shopping like this for years. Not since my sister died, and Dax doesn’t like me going outside the compound, so it’s not like I have friends to do this with. Usually, the boutiques come out to the manor.”
Well shit. Sylvie’s lonely, and probably over-compensating.
“Well, you’ve given me my first real shopping day ever. And bonus, you picked out some great interview outfits.” These are the only truthful compliments I can give, but her face lights up regardless of how weak they are.
“That’s the spirit! Now we have one more store and then home.”
Fuck. No more. And yet why isn’t that what I say?
“Just one, though. At this rate, my feet won’t fit into those shoes you picked.”
Sylvie snorts. “You need to work on your stamina, Jules. Next time we do this, you need to last the entire day.” She grins and grabs her purse, sipping the last of her coffee.
“Next time? Can we negotiate that?” There’s no way I’m doing this again, not without my own money and probably a trip to the Marina where everything is way cheaper.
Sylvie keeps to her word, and I have to admit the last shop is a must. The one thing I need desperately is underwear.
Only, the designer lingerie store isn’t exactly the bulk-pack-of-panties kind of place I expected. In here, even the matching sets are individually displayed as though each flimsy shred of material is a work of art. The seasonal colours of gold, peach, and lilac are splashed across each wall, all of them clashing horribly with one another.
“You’re on your own in here,” Sylvie warns. “My sister always said what a ‘woman wears against her skin is her own concern.’ I agree with her on that, although there are some really cute ensembles that I can see at the back that would suit you.” With a goal in her line of vision, she beelines for the back of the store. I absently wonder if Sylvie’s sister was anything like my grandmother.
Even though the choice of colours is restricted, the cut and styles available are mind-boggling for a girl who only ever wore the underpants her mother stole from the factory. In my entire life, I’ve only paid for underwear twice. Once when I was thirteen and needed to buy a training bra after my gym teacher caught the girls laughing at my newly formed breasts and last year, when I could no longer get away with hiding my fully formed chest behind layers of baggy sweaters and t-shirts. Both times were humiliating. I had no idea what I was doing. Much like now.
I dig around the displays, pretending to look at the sizes as though I know what size I am. I have a rough idea. The bra I’m wearing holds me up even if it’s a little looser in the back than it used to be.
“Can I help you?” a voice purrs beside me. Are shop assistants taught how to sneak attack their clientele? Dubiously in her late thirties, the woman stares at me with an emotionless mien painted across her face in luxury cosmetics. She rivals the mannequins in lack of expression.
“I…um…”
“What size are you?” she asks, cutting through my nerves.
“Um.”
“Have you ever been measured?”
“For a bra?” Did people do that? How?
“Follow me.”
“I don’t have the time. I…thank you, but—” The woman gives me a wry smile and pulls the blouse I’m wearing tight across my chest. Before I even realise what she’s doing, she spins me around and yanks at the band of my bra.
“The one you are wearing is two sizes too big around the back and one cup size too small. Start there and let me know if I’m wrong.” She hands me a pretty lilac bra with scalloped lace edges and pushes me into the changing cubby.
The item she chose is exactly two sizes smaller and one cup size larger than the bra I currently wear. Go figure. I tug the blouse over my head then wrench off my dirty once-was-white-now-is-grey bra, before carefully trying the new one—all the while, secretly hoping she’s got it wrong.
She hasn’t. It’s perfect. “Exactly right,” I whisper.
Her flat toneless voice seeps through the curtain. “Wonderful.”
I take off the new one and hang it back on the padded silk hanger. Dressing, I exit the booth and snatch a matching pair of boy short panties off the wall display. Sylvie waits for me at the till, forehead furrowed, and a frown etched into her pouty lips.
“One set? That isn’t going to get you far.”
“What is the budget today, Miss Trevainne?” the assistant asks, clearly recognising Sylvie.
“Let’s go to three thousand, Marie. Can you provide an array of your most popular sellers and mix up the styles a little? She needs a little spice in her wardrobe.” The assistant nods and takes off around the store, lifting items from the rails and handing them to three other girls who collect, wrap, and charge each item to the accumulating bill on Sylvie’s card.
“The red set at the back too!” Sylvie yells as Marie nears the outfit in question. “And the same in the black, but in my size, if you will?”
“Of course, Miss Trevainne.”
“I can’t let you have all the fun,” Sylvie beams. I’m watching with my mouth so wide I can taste the cloying perfume that the shop assistants are doused in.
I’m half-expecting Sylvie’s card to be declined or her bank to call through and accuse her of being a fraud just from the sheer amount of money wasted on lingerie, but the bill rings through and the card accepts the transaction.
On the way to the exit, a call comes in. I freeze. The tinkling bell rings exactly as I walk through the discrete security pillars by the doors. I glance back, thinking I’ve set them off, but no one is looking at me. Sylvie reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone.
“Hello?...What?...Are you serious? Really?…Oh my God! We’re on our way!”
My stomach turns somersaults. Has something happened? Oh God, are the kids okay? Aiden? Dax? As Sylvie continues to nod and shout exclamations down the line, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and there, blinking ominously, is a message from Dax.
Tom’s awake.