Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Debra wasn’t one of the associates who’d heard the strange lady proclaim me Neil Elwood’s fiancé, so when she came over, my neighbor introduced me as such: “This is Neil Elwood’s fiancée. You know Neil Elwood, I’m sure. He threw that fundraiser for the land mines what was it, eight years ago? Paul McCartney played.”
“I’m Sophie,” I told Debra, extending my hand.
Debra was better at dealing with this kind of uncomfortable conversation than I was. Her bewilderment lasted only a few seconds before a distant, professional smile replaced it. “How do you do, Sophie? Have you shopped with us before?”
“The future Mrs. Elwood was quite keen on my purse,” weirdo neighbor lady said. “You should show her what you have in stock.”
I could tell from Debra’s vibe that the last thing she wanted to do was sully the holy Birkin name by showing me the stock. But that just made me angry. Okay, so I’d bought my jeans at Banana Republic. So I couldn’t afford a ten-thousand dollar handbag on my own. Big freaking deal. I was about to marry a billionaire. I lived in a freaking Manhattan palace. If I wanted to be a New York socialite trophy wife, dammit, this jerk wasn’t going to stop me!
I lifted my chin and took a breath, as though I were considering. Then I said, “You know, I really would like to see what you have in stock.”
“Soph?” I heard Holli ask behind me, all gentle, like I was a horse about to bolt into a barn fire. “Did you just ask to see a Birkin bag?”
“I did.” The wild, dangerous rush I used to feel when I’d occasionally shoplifted in middle school came back to me with a vengeance. Not that I planned on stealing the bag, of course. I would just look at it, pronounce that isn’t a color I liked or some other lofty, totally unbelievable excuse, and go. But it felt risky even doing that. Despite the fact that the infamous waiting list had been retired, the bags were still ultra-expensive status symbols.
“We do have one in stock. I’ll go and get it,” Debra said with fake warmth before heading off to the back.
“Well, this has been quite charming, but I must dash,” Neighbor Lady said with a pleasant smile. “Do enjoy your bag.”
“Yeah. Bye,” I managed. I felt like I’d just been run over by a train. I hadn’t even gotten her name. She was like a malicious purse fairy or something.
“So, you’re seriously looking at a Birkin?” Holli shook her head. “You realize how much those cost, right?”
“Yes, I worked for the top fashion magazine in the country, thank you, I know how much they are.” My face was burning. I felt the weirdest urge to prove something, to someone. I just didn’t know what and to whom. To the neighbor lady, that I belonged in the building because we had matching purses? To Debra, the sales person I would probably never see again in my entire life, that I was somehow cosmically deserving of an astronomically priced bag?
Or maybe I was just trying to prove all of that to myself. But for whatever reason, when Debra returned with the gorgeous, pale alligator leather bag, I knew I was going to buy it, no matter the price.
It was the most beautiful purse I’d ever seen. It was the pale tan of a McDonald’s chocolate shake, or maybe just a touch lighter. The fact that it was such a large bag and made out of alligator skin was pretty impressive; most alligators don’t have enough leather for a presentable thirty-five centimeter bag with pockets. And this wasn’t just presentable. It was a marvel, with its gleaming gold hardware and matching alligator leather sleeve for the tiny padlock that would keep the bag from being opened. I lifted the Birkin from the glass-topped counter like it was a holy relic and breathed, “How much?”
“One hundred and fifteen thousand dollars,” Debra answered without hesitation.
I had to buy it, Neil. I barfed on it. That was not a conversation I wanted to have, so I fought back the wave of nausea that gripped me at the dollar figure.
“Wow, so, kind of out of anyone’s price range, huh?” Holli laughed.
This was the part where I was supposed to politely decline the bag and slink off, I assume. Maybe later I would run into Neighbor and Anastasia the Yorkie, who probably had her own Birkin, and they would both look at me in judgment as I stood there, a poor girl from Michigan pretending to be a billionaire’s trophy wife.
A brief “Barkin” pun burbled up to the surface of my mind at the thought of a dog with a purse, and I laughed, a little crazily.
“Sorry, I just remembered something funny.” I opened my own purse—a Madison East/West Coach bag in purple leather that had cost a measly two-hundred and looked like a Target clearance buy in comparison to the magnificent ex-alligator before me—and pulled out the scariest weapon in my arsenal.