Page 56 of Kiss My Glass
Of course he isn’t, I’m a modern woman. But it’s fun to wind him up.
That said, the guy did make thirty-nine grand yesterday afternoon. I think I can be old-fashioned enough to let him buy me lunch, at least.
ChapterThirty
DANNY
Frankie plans her shopping like she’s in charge of D-Day. She’s plotted out a route map that takes us around her strategic choice of locations in the shortest amount of time, no dilly-dallying. She’s also picked a spot for lunch. It happens to be a place us Durant kids took Mom last year. It’s kind of kitschy, which doesn’t seem like Frankie’s style, so I suspect she’s only chosen it because it’s en route. Hope she likes floral-patterned teapots and being surrounded by small porcelain animals dressed in British Edwardian clothing.
Me, I’m happy to be pulled along in Frankie’s slipstream. It gives me time to fantasize about what I’d like us to get up to when we’re back at my place. I feel a need to pay her back for the torture-sex session. Immature, I know, but fun to imagine. Though I’d better stop imagining now as we’re entering our first vintage store. A bad look to enter boner-first.
Needn’t have worried. Frankie races in before me like a whirlwind and starts flicking through the racks with the speed of one who knows exactly what they’re looking for. I saw a video online of a guy in London who was mud larking, which is basically sifting through mud and stones at the edge of the River Thames to find valuable objects. He fished out an ancient Roman coin that even when I watched the video again, I could not spot. That’s what Frankie’s shopping style looks like to me. Why does she pull out that top and not the one next to it that looks the same? The tattooed pink-haired woman behind the counter hasn’t even bothered to ask if Frankie needs help. She recognizes a world authority when she sees one.
“Here.” Frankie hands me a blue-and-gray argyle-patterned sweater vest. She has her own items slung over her other arm.
“I’m going to look like Archie,” I say, doubtfully. “The geeky 1950s version, not the coolRiverdaleone.”
Frankie eyes me sternly. “I find your lack of faith disturbing.”
“Okay, master,” I say, and only half-jokingly, add, “Please don’t force-choke me.”
We depart to separate changing rooms, and I pull the vest over my blue polo shirt. Wow. Frankie really has an eye. My next winter staple sorted.
“I look goddamn adorable,” I call out to her. “How about you?”
“Come and see,” she replies.
Oh, man. She’s outside striking a pose in a rose-pink dress with capped sleeves and pencil skirt, waist cinched with a black patent leather belt. She is the sexiest thing I’ve seen and it takes all my willpower not to drag her back into the changing room and lock the door.
“Does something for me?” she says with a smile, enjoying the fact my eyes are on stalks.
“Does something forme, that’s for sure.” I say. “Don’t suppose?—?”
“I’m just getting started,” she says, immediately. “This is still my first wind.”
I know when I’m beaten. We change, pay for our clothes, and hit the road. Nothing for it but for me to buckle up and enjoy the ride.
Two hours later and I reallyambeaten. Non-stop shopping on top of half a morning spent phoning Spanish hotels and I am collapsed on this particular store’s velvet chaise longue pleading for mercy.
“Pfft,” says Frankie. “I thought you were a hiking, running endurance athlete?”
“I didn’t train for this,” I say, waving my hand around at the store. “And I need food.I’m so light-headed, I’m starting to hallucinate. Pink poodle skirts are dancing around my head.”
Frankie’s rubbing her forefinger and thumb together. Right, she’s playing a tiny violin. Normally, my competitive instinct would be sorely provoked by this affront, but right now, I’m too fucking tired to care. Wait, maybe that’s my way out…
“I think I might have to call off our ‘later’ engagement.” I say. “Need to crash for a siesta, instead.”
“The hell you will,” says Frankie, hands on hips. She purses her lips in annoyance, then says, “Oh, all right, let’s go to lunch.”
She reaches out a hand to pull me up off the chaise longue. I’m prepared for her strength, so I don’t go flying into the nearest rack of vintage biker gear, all black leather and ripped denim. I wonder briefly if Brendan gets his outfits here, but assume he’d never do anything as unmanly as shop. Probably orders his T-shirts and jeans directly from Hell’s Angels. They come wrapped in chains and the scalp of your enemy.
I need food. Now.
Frankie’s face when we pull up outside her choice of café is pretty priceless.
“Well, this is … interesting,” she says, noting the assortment of animal figurines on the floral-bunting-and-fairy-light-draped front porch. “Why is that porcupine wearing a dress? Or should I sayhowis it wearing one?”
“Inside it’s even more cute,” I say. “And by cute, I mean terrifying.”
