Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 74366 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74366 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
He leads me into the first clothes shop we see, one of the lovely little boutiques on the front. Everything looks expensive, really expensive, but he doesn’t seem to care. He heads for a section at the back, with loads of pretty pastel colours, and I’m pleased. It’s where I’d have headed myself.
I baulk at the price tags, tell him it’s all too much, but he won’t hear any of it. He’s gathering up clothes more quickly than I can look at them, pretty shades of pink, and bright whites, lovely purples and teals and pale blues. He’s chosen the smallest size on the rack, and he’s right.
“Choose whatever you want, Laine,” he says. “Anything you like.”
But he’s already chosen everything I like. I tell him so and he smiles.
“Great minds,” he says, and heads for the changing rooms. I follow him, a little lamb dancing along behind such a powerful man. Everyone is looking at us. At him.
The sales assistants are whispering. They beam as he shows them the collection, and then they chivvy me along to an empty cubicle at the back.
He waits for me, and I feel so self-conscious, trying on such beautiful clothes under harsh lighting. My skin looks pasty and pale, my eyes look tired and my hair looks wispy and fine. But the clothes. They look gorgeous.
I show him a tight pink cami over a pair of white jeans, and he likes them. He tells me so.
I try floaty dresses over tights, and he likes those more. I do a little twirl for him and he claps his hands, smiles at me.
He fetches me a fluffy white cardigan and it feels so soft against my skin.
He fetches me a winter duffle coat that makes me gasp when I see the price.
He fetches me a scarf, and a cute winter hat with a pom-pom. Boots, too, and a sparkly pink pair of flats that make me feel like a little princess.
And then he makes me take everything, and I can’t, I really can’t. It brings tears to my eyes.
“My pleasure, Laine. Mine,” he says, and I have no words for that. Nothing other than another thank you, and it always sounds so lame.
I’m still staring at the items in the basket when he piles more in. Nightdresses, and socks and packs of knickers. He hovers by the bras, and I realise he’s waiting for me to tell him my size. I feel my cheeks burn as I pick out the very smallest one they do.
“I don’t have… much… up top,” I say, and try to make light of it.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I laugh a little. “Isn’t it?”
“No,” he says. “It isn’t. You’re perfect the way you are, don’t you dare ever think otherwise.”
My tummy flutters.
He thinks I’m perfect.
And I know it’s probably just a figure of speech, know he’s probably just being nice, saying things to make me feel better, but I wish he wasn’t.
I wish he meant it.
I pick out some bras, just plain white with a bit of lace. It’s what I usually wear, and I regret my decision for a moment, worried I’ve made a bad impression, that I should’ve chosen something more sexy, more… grown up.
“Anything else you want, Laine? Anything at all?”
I shake my head, manage a smile. “I think you’ve just about covered it. So many things… so many beautiful things…”
He seems so pleased.
I can’t bear to watch as he pays. I stare at my pumps instead, anywhere but at the total balance as he hands over his card.
He carries the bags, and asks me if we should carry on shopping. He’s worried, he says, worried that I won’t have enough clothes for the time being.
He has no idea that he’s already bought me more than I ever had in my wardrobe at home.
I tell him no, I tell him thank you, I tell him that he’s already done more for me than I can ever repay, and he settles on toiletries, leads me around the beauty shop until I’ve placed everything I need in a trolley.
I hope he’s forgotten about a phone, but he hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t.
It’s the first time I really dig my heels in.
“Please,” I say. “It’s too much!”
“You have to have a phone, Laine,” he insists. “How will I be able to contact you otherwise? How will I know you’re safe?”
If I’m safe.
I shrug. “I’ll borrow Kelly Anne’s, if I need to.”
“Wrong answer,” he says, and marches me straight inside the shop.
The phone he chooses is ridiculously superior to the one stolen from me. It makes me cry stupid tears again, and I feel so overwhelmed, my belly full of this churning something. I can’t straighten it out.
“You can’t…” I say, and he takes my hand, squeezes it tight until I look at him.