on her single bed and muttering it like a prayer, ‘wants to return an item she removed from this counter without paying.’
I watched the shop assistant’s face change. I tried to imagine what we looked like to her. The three of us: Barbara in her shabby, aggressively clean houndstooth coat and cracked leather gloves; Donald, rocking slightly and smiling as if he was about to be given a present; and me – jeans at high-water mark, school shoes and the Christmas-Present-School-Coat, shoulders speckled with fine grains of snow that to an unsympathetic eye could have looked like dandruff. And all of us lined up in order of size, staring back at her and her abandoned packet of paper hearts.
Barbara retrieved the white and blue and silver perfume box from her bag. She closed the clasp with a snap (the noise it made was as satisfied as she was) and placed the perfume carefully on the counter.
‘Here it is,’ she said, and gestured towards it. She didn’t look at me – her neck was rigid with fright. ‘She’d like to make up for her actions in some way. What do you suggest?’
The shop assistant glanced at me. I looked at the red hearts and said nothing.
‘Wouldn’t you, Lola?’ Barbara prompted. As if she was getting ready for a fight, she pulled off her gloves and laid them over the pursed mouth of her handbag.
‘Are you sure?’ the shop assistant said. She gestured behind her without looking, like a weathergirl. ‘These are display boxes. We aren’t missing anything.’
‘It’s Valentine’s Day soon!’ Donald announced, and put his hand on the counter. ‘Have you got a boyfriend, young lady?’ The assistant moved her eyes from Barbara to Donald, who had opened his wallet and was proffering an expired credit card, and then back to Barbara again. The credit card was green and white and orange – clearly an antique and the sort of object that would turn up as a curiosity in a jumble sale, and get snapped up by someone collecting props for a retro television programme.
‘Whatever’s number one,’ Donald said, ‘whatever you’d want your man to buy you. That’s what I’ll have, for my Barbie. And something light and flowery for my little girl. Cost no object.’ He raised his arm, dropped it around Barbara’s shoulders, clutched her, shook her a little. ‘She’s young at heart, isn’t she?’ He actually winked – ‘Isn’t she just!’ and waved the card at the assistant. She didn’t take it. Barbara said nothing and the assistant looked at us as if we were all mental.
‘My mother thinks—’ I began, trying for that tone of injured dignity Barbara had managed so well.
‘Maybe,’ Barbara interrupted me, ‘we can come to an arrangement. Will you take the perfume back into stock? Can you do that for us, at least?’
The assistant glanced at the box and shook her head.
‘There are health and safety—’
‘I see. Of course. I should have – Donald,’ she turned, ‘put your wallet away.’
There was a moment when nobody spoke. The tinkling music in the shop seemed louder, but I could still hear Donald’s polyester trousers rustling as he tucked his wallet away.
‘Maybe,’ Barbara said, and I knew in that instant that she wouldn’t be defeated, ‘Lola could work here for a few Saturdays. To earn the money back.’
I opened my mouth – this was Chloe’s ideal job – we already knew you had to be sixteen to work on the perfume counter and if I got this job some underhand way, she’d kill me – but Barbara held up her hand, her fingers poised delicately. Her nails were painted neatly but the skin on the back of her hand was slack.
‘Miss,’ she said, as if it was the assistant who had started to protest, and not me, ‘my daughter did something wrong. Of which she is ashamed. Deeply. As a family, we are ashamed. Deeply. We are not destitute. Not enough to steal something. So she can work for you, to pay off the debt and make it right.’
‘There are all sorts of
I watched the shop assistant’s face change. I tried to imagine what we looked like to her. The three of us: Barbara in her shabby, aggressively clean houndstooth coat and cracked leather gloves; Donald, rocking slightly and smiling as if he was about to be given a present; and me – jeans at high-water mark, school shoes and the Christmas-Present-School-Coat, shoulders speckled with fine grains of snow that to an unsympathetic eye could have looked like dandruff. And all of us lined up in order of size, staring back at her and her abandoned packet of paper hearts.
Barbara retrieved the white and blue and silver perfume box from her bag. She closed the clasp with a snap (the noise it made was as satisfied as she was) and placed the perfume carefully on the counter.
‘Here it is,’ she said, and gestured towards it. She didn’t look at me – her neck was rigid with fright. ‘She’d like to make up for her actions in some way. What do you suggest?’
The shop assistant glanced at me. I looked at the red hearts and said nothing.
‘Wouldn’t you, Lola?’ Barbara prompted. As if she was getting ready for a fight, she pulled off her gloves and laid them over the pursed mouth of her handbag.
‘Are you sure?’ the shop assistant said. She gestured behind her without looking, like a weathergirl. ‘These are display boxes. We aren’t missing anything.’
‘It’s Valentine’s Day soon!’ Donald announced, and put his hand on the counter. ‘Have you got a boyfriend, young lady?’ The assistant moved her eyes from Barbara to Donald, who had opened his wallet and was proffering an expired credit card, and then back to Barbara again. The credit card was green and white and orange – clearly an antique and the sort of object that would turn up as a curiosity in a jumble sale, and get snapped up by someone collecting props for a retro television programme.
‘Whatever’s number one,’ Donald said, ‘whatever you’d want your man to buy you. That’s what I’ll have, for my Barbie. And something light and flowery for my little girl. Cost no object.’ He raised his arm, dropped it around Barbara’s shoulders, clutched her, shook her a little. ‘She’s young at heart, isn’t she?’ He actually winked – ‘Isn’t she just!’ and waved the card at the assistant. She didn’t take it. Barbara said nothing and the assistant looked at us as if we were all mental.
‘My mother thinks—’ I began, trying for that tone of injured dignity Barbara had managed so well.
‘Maybe,’ Barbara interrupted me, ‘we can come to an arrangement. Will you take the perfume back into stock? Can you do that for us, at least?’
The assistant glanced at the box and shook her head.
‘There are health and safety—’
‘I see. Of course. I should have – Donald,’ she turned, ‘put your wallet away.’
There was a moment when nobody spoke. The tinkling music in the shop seemed louder, but I could still hear Donald’s polyester trousers rustling as he tucked his wallet away.
‘Maybe,’ Barbara said, and I knew in that instant that she wouldn’t be defeated, ‘Lola could work here for a few Saturdays. To earn the money back.’
I opened my mouth – this was Chloe’s ideal job – we already knew you had to be sixteen to work on the perfume counter and if I got this job some underhand way, she’d kill me – but Barbara held up her hand, her fingers poised delicately. Her nails were painted neatly but the skin on the back of her hand was slack.
‘Miss,’ she said, as if it was the assistant who had started to protest, and not me, ‘my daughter did something wrong. Of which she is ashamed. Deeply. As a family, we are ashamed. Deeply. We are not destitute. Not enough to steal something. So she can work for you, to pay off the debt and make it right.’
‘There are all sorts of
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