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The woman puckers her lips and bats her eyes like it’s cute.
“Small change for the man sitting in the waiting area. He said whatever you want.”
She leans in and lowers her voice. “Trust me. You want this.”
Actually, I don’t.
Glancing over at the man in question, I watch him talk on the phone, completely oblivious of my struggle with this insane woman. I’m about one second away from running over and stabbing him to death with this fancy hanger for bringing me here.
Oh, you need to stop hiding…
You’ll thank me later when you find something better than T-shirts and jeans…
Who the fuck is he to judge my clothes? I’m the one wearing them.
What’s wrong with a woman choosing comfort over style?
The saleswoman interrupts my internal bitchfest.
“Do you not like the black? We have it in green and red too.”
I snatch the dress from her hands and attempt to place it back on the rack. She stops me, positively offended that I refuse.
It’s during our struggle that she drops the French accent, her voice lowering more as she eyes me like her life depends on it.
“Listen, I can tell you don’t like the guy or these clothes. I get it. You’d be surprised to know how many women are dragged in this place by some rich alpha-hole and told they need a new wardrobe. I swear, these men need to get a hobby. But he gave me his credit card with no limit, and if you want my advice, just buy all the shit. Fuck him. Cost him as much as you possibly can and beat him at his own game. Then, never wear the shit. It’ll piss him off more. You get me?”
I flinch back at her sudden honesty.
Then smile.
Now she’s talking my language.
“Just how expensive can this get?” I ask.
She smiles. “Think hundreds of thousands.”
Conspiracy accepted…
I lean closer to her. “Do you get commission on this?”
“Yes,” she answers, “which is why I’m being honest with you. And my commission is added onto the final price. He pays it. Not the store. Understand?”
Oh, I understand.
There’s no doubt Shane brought me here to amuse himself.
So I’ll make it amusing.
“In that case, I’ll take the most expensive clothes you’ve got.”
It takes us less than an hour to rack up twenty shopping bags of clothes. Dresses, tops, jeans, slacks, skirts, underwear, bras, jackets, shoes … you name it. And ultimately, I didn’t hate all of it. There are some pieces I’ll wear.
To be fair, the shopping was fun. But that’s not the best part. It’s the heart attack I know is coming for Shane that makes the experience even better.
“Thirty thousand, four hundred, fifty-two dollars and twenty-seven cents,” my conspirator, Francesca, announces when the final number is totaled.
Actually, her name is Kelly, but Shane doesn’t need to know that. She only uses the fancy name to fool the idiot big spenders in this fancy place.
