I’VE TAKEN QUITE a few retail excursions with unwilling participants in the past.
Mama, for example, is a get-in-and-get-out shopper. Dylan will go with me if it means we get to spend an afternoon on a blanket at Biltmore afterwards. Like most boys, he’s motivated by reward. When I take him thrifting, he’s always looking over his shoulder—like he’s worried his lacrosse teammates from his snooty private school will see him in a secondhand store and assume he’s poor. (He isn’t; his parents are doctors, for God’s sake.) And of course I’m rushed when he does this, which is the most annoying thing. He sometimes makes me feel inadequate. Like he didn’t know what he was signing up for when he asked the girl from public school to be his girlfriend. At a lame hospital work party for our parents, no less.
But my current issue is a different situation entirely.
Number one: because I’ve been to three stores in terminal two, and none have a pair of shoes for less than £200. Number two: because Henry looks more pissed off than anyone I’ve ever taken shopping with me before.
As I tiptoe through Harrod’s, Henry leans against a white column a safe distance away, flexing his jaw and staring at his phone screen. I get the distinct impression that he’s only here because someone forced him to be. But I shake off the thought and concentrate on the task at hand. Shoes of every variety are impeccably displayed on gleaming tables. My fingers fumble with the price tags. I can’t think of a single place back home that would charge this much for such basic shoes.
A bright orange pair of rubber rain boots called Wellys are the least expensive I find, and they’re still £80. I pick up one boot and turn it over in my hands. It smells like a tire shop. The like-new satin knockoff Louboutins I got for junior prom on eBay were only $41. These are ugly rubber rain boots, more than double that. Forget it. I refuse to chisel that much from my budget before even boarding the tube. I only paid $7 for the ballet flats I was wearing before the creeper stole one. Yes, seven dollars! Originally $59, can you believe it? Someday, people will look down into my corpse-stuffed coffin and compliment my outfit. I’ll probably use my very last dying neuron to scream IT WAS ON SALE.
My feet make a slapping noise on the pristine white tile as I approach Henry, and something warm and electric sizzles at the base of my skull. It percolates outwards to my fingers and toes—the unmistakable trigger of déjà vu. I glance at the floor. Marble! From-the-dream marble! It must show on my face, because when Henry glances up from his phone, he squints.
“Let’s just go,” I say, ignoring the urge to stare at my feet and grin like I’m full-throttle disturbed. “I have plenty of shoes in my luggage. I’ll have to deal till the airport elves can get my things to me.”
His eyebrows climb his forehead. “You can’t ride the tube without shoes.”
“Crap.” I cross my arms. I didn’t even think about that. “Is it illegal or something?”
He squints again, like my stupidity has a radioactive glow. “Because it’s bloody grotty.”
I swallow a snicker. Wanker or not, I could listen to him talk all day.
He shoves his phone in his pocket and stands from where he’s been leaning. I crane my neck and try not to make it obvious that I’m admiring his station in the cosmos from my position below on earth. Lexie would say he’s a taaaaalll drink of water.
A refined voice speaks over my shoulder. “May I assist you with something?”
I pivot to tell the saleslady no thank you, I’m browsing, but Henry speaks up first.
“Yes, she’ll be needing shoes, as you can see.”
I ignore the way he speaks for me and tell her myself, “No, thank you. These are well out of my price range.”
She glances down at my bare feet, disapproval darker than her mascara. “Please do let me know if I can help you with anything.”
When she saunters away, Henry says, “Nonsense.” He glances down at my feet. “What size do you wear? 40 or so? Wide?” He walks over and picks up the Welly boot I put back on the shelf. “I’ll buy them myself. The next train leaves in ten minutes.”
An incredulous squeak escapes as I follow him. My feet—which by his calculations are dinosaur-like—slap the slick tile as I go. I try to grab the boot, but he does something that makes me fully understand the definition of wanker: he holds it up out of my reach.
Heat engulfs my face. Aren’t British people supposed to be polite? This is not polite. I know polite. I am a Southerner.
“Are you serious right now?” I prop my hands on my hips to keep from smacking him. Because manners. People sneak glances at us. The saleslady eyes us from across the store.
“Of course I’m serious.” He laughs, but not like ha. “You need shoes and you don’t have the money for them. I’m your host and will purchase them on your behalf for the sake of time. This is the third store we’ve been to. I have things to attend to this evening.”
My eyes flit from his face to the boot. He’s right. I’m being difficult. But so is he, and I did not ask for his escort service. I jump—actually jump—to grab the boot. God only knows what possesses me. But it doesn’t matter because I still can’t reach it.
“Your dad is my host. Not you. And I do have the money to buy them,” I insist. It isn’t a lie. I put two years of saved babysitting money—nearly $2,000—on a prepaid debit card. It has to last the whole five weeks, though, which means I can spend approximately $57 per day, food included. “I just think it’s ridiculous to pay that much for a pair of shoes I don’t need.”
“But it appears you do need them.” A mixture of challenge and irritation simmers in his big green irises. Now that I really look at them, they’re the color of slime. The Grinch. The Slytherin crest. He’s Malfoy, but with better hair and eyes and… well, pretty much better everything, but his actions render him toad-like.
He slowly brings his arm down. I snatch the boot out of his hand, grab the mate, and stomp toward the cash register. Déjà vu ripples through me with each thud.