On the too-low seating of the waiting area, I sit, rotating one thumb around the other. The store is expensively fitted out, furnished and stocked with over-priced bling, frequented by customers intent on spending, with the object of being seen to spend.
Haswell came prepared, a pink newspaper tucked under one arm. Within moments of Mitch and Beth setting sail for the lingerie department, towing a reluctant Jenny with them, he shook the paper open and now sits, one ankle propped on a knee, reading the financial pages. With each movement of the dressing-room curtains, he glances over the top of his spectacles, then inhales as he returns to his paper.
“Are we expected to do much of this?” I mutter.
His lips twitch. “Not too much, but in your role as husband, yes, it’s expected.”
husband“
