Page 38 of Fangs for the Memories
“For you,” I say.
Her hands shake as she picks up the money and puts it in the register before quickly bagging up the items Grace wants.
“Where next?” I ask as we leave.
“You’re going to love this next place,” she says, clapping her hands together with glee.
I very much doubt it.
Grace
Itake Ferenc on a magical mystery tour of all the thrift shops I wanted to visit, but both my money and my feet gave out on the first attempt. The look on his face, standing in the center of a store filled with secondhand goods in his bespoke suit, the price of which would probably mean he could buy the entire stock and some, is priceless.
But as much as this is fun, by the last shop, it’s hardly as if I’ve been able to replace much, if any, of what I’ve lost. Including underwear. Especially underwear.
“Where next?” Ferenc says, and I’m impressed at how he manages not to sound weary at all.
“I need…some ladies things, stuff like makeup. Is there a department store or something?” I ask.
It’s a long shot. I don’t imagine Ferenc goes shopping much. What he wears is the sort of clothing you get measured for in your own home.
“I know where we can go.” Ferenc flashes me his fanged smile and then speaks in rapid Hungarian to his driver.
The car pulls away from the curb and into traffic, which has remained constant despite the overnight snowfall. Thetemperature has remained low, and the darkening clouds above us suggest we’re in for some more very soon.
It doesn’t take long before we’re gliding to a halt in front of a brightly lit store which runs for almost a block. The windows are filled with skinny mannequins wearing brand new designer items.
Items I already know will be hugely overpriced. It doesn’t matter that I’m not paying—this sort of place is not my sort of place.
Ferenc gets out and comes around to my side, opening the door for me. I step out, and he swiftly ushers me past the uniformed security guard and doorman, into the over lit warmth of the store.
“Whatever you need,” he says.
I look around at the various perfume and cosmetic stands. It’s all stuff I’ve coveted but never been able to afford, unless I had a gift card.
I look at Ferenc.
He’s managing to look imperious and smug at the same time, like this was always his plan. I think he thinks I don’t know how to spend money.
Perhaps it’s time he found out how wrong he is. Because when it comes to shopping, I doubt there’s anyone in the Western Hemisphere better at it than me. I might choose secondhand and thrift shops, but it doesn’t mean I’m intimidated by this sort of place.
“Fine,” I say, stretching out my hands in front of me, my fingers interlinked.
I make a circuit of the cosmetics area, with my great dark shadow in attendance, thoroughly terrifying each and every one of the servers. When I come to make my choices, they can’t help but fall over themselves to be helpful.
I’m embarrassed to say they all speak good English, compared to my extremely rudimentary Hungarian. I resolve to try a little harder, given the genuine smiles I get when I thank them in their own language.
I also doubt I’ve made a dent in Ferenc’s wallet.
“Do you need anything else?” he asks.
I stare him dead in the eye. “Underwear.”
“Underwear?” I think he’s wondering if he can believe his luck.
“Underwear. But not frilly lacy things like all men think we want to wear. I want nice big granny pants,” I respond.
Next to me, the assistant snorts and covers her mouth with her hand, averting her eyes from Ferenc who bristles.
