A young sales assistant approaches us. Blond and breezy, with a bright, girl-next-door smile and a bouncing ponytail to match, she asks, “Can I help you, sir?”
“My…um, girlfriend needs everything. She’s left all her stuff in London, and we’re here for a week.”
Girlfriend? Yes. That works.
Alessia looks up at me, surprised.
“Sure. What do you need?” the assistant asks with a cheery glance at Alessia.
Alessia shrugs.
“Let’s start with jeans,” I interject.
“What size?”
“I do not know,” Alessia replies.
The assistant looks puzzled, and then stands back appraising her. “You’re not from around here, are you?” she says pleasantly.
“No.” Alessia flushes.
“I think you’re a small, either a UK size eight or ten.” She gives us an expectant look, waiting for confirmation.
Alessia nods, though I think it’s because she doesn’t want to be rude.
“Why don’t you go into the changing room, and I’ll find some jeans in those sizes, and we’ll go from there?”
“Okay,” Alessia mumbles, and with an inscrutable look at me, she follows the assistant to the changing rooms.
I hear the assistant inform Alessia, “My name’s Sarah, by the way.” I breathe a sigh of relief and watch Sarah retrieve a couple of pairs of jeans from the shelves.
“Dark and light denim and a pair in black,” I prompt. Her ponytail bobs merrily as she flashes me a smile and gathers several pairs.
Wandering around the shop, I rifle through some clothes racks trying to decide what would look good on Alessia. I’ve been shopping with women before, but they’ve always known what they wanted. I am dragged along on these trips either to pay or to give an opinion that will be ignored. The women I know all have confidence in their own style. I wonder if I should send her shopping with Caroline.
What?
Back in London?
No. That’s probably not a good idea.
Not yet.
I frown. What am I doing?
I’m fucking my daily. That’s what I’m doing.
In my mind I hear her cry as she orgasms. My dick hardens at the memory.
Bugger.
Yes. I’m fucking her, and I want to do it again.
That’s why I’m here.
I like her. Really like her. And I want to protect her from all the shit she’s endured….And I have so much, and she has nothing.
I snort. It’s a redistribution of wealth. Yes. How altruistic and socialist of me. My mother would not be thrilled. That thought makes me smile.
I find a couple of dresses I like, one in black and one in emerald green, and hand them to the assistant.
Will Alessia like these?
I sit down in a convenient chair outside the dressing-room area and wait, trying to put aside my disquieting thoughts.
Alessia appears wearing the green dress.
Wow.
I feel a little light-headed.
I’ve never seen her in a dress.
Her hair cascades down below her breasts, which are swathed in a soft fabric that clings.
Everywhere.
Breasts. Flat stomach. Hips. The dress stops short at her knees, and she’s barefoot. She looks sensational—a little older, maybe, but more womanly and sophisticated.
“It is not too low?” Alessia asks, tugging at the neckline.
“No.” My voice is hoarse, and I cough to clear it. “No, it’s fine.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes. Yes. I like it a lot. You look lovely.”
She gives me a shy smile. I hold up my finger and motion for her to turn around. She does quickly and giggles.
The fabric clings to her arse, too.
Yep. She’s gorgeous.
“I approve,” I say, and she heads back into the dressing room.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Alessia has a new wardrobe: three pairs of jeans, four long-sleeved tops in various colors, two skirts, two plain shirts, two cardigans, two dresses, two sweaters, a coat, socks, tights, and underwear.
“That’s one thousand three hundred and fifty-five pounds, please.” Sarah beams at Maxim.
“What!” Alessia squeaks.
Maxim hands over his credit card, pulls Alessia into his arms, and kisses her long and hard. She is breathless when he releases her, and she stares down at the floor, mortified. She cannot face Sarah. In Alessia’s town, holding hands in public is considered forward. Kissing. No. Never. Never in public.
“Hey,” Maxim murmurs, putting his hand beneath her chin to pull her face up.
“You spend too much,” she whispers.
“Not for you. Please. Don’t be angry with me.”
* * *
Her gaze lingers on my face, but I have no idea what she’s thinking.
“Thank you,” she says finally.
“You are most welcome,” I reply, relieved. “Now we’re going to get you some decent shoes.”
Alessia’s face lights up like a summer’s day.
Ah. Shoes…the way to every woman’s heart.
* * *
In a nearby shoe shop, she chooses a pair of stout ankle boots in black.
“You’ll need more than one pair of shoes,” I say.
“These are all I need.”
“Here, these are nice.” I hold up a pair of ballet flats. I wish they stocked high-heeled fuck-me shoes, but alas—everything in the store is practical.
Alessia hesitates.
“I like these,” I say, hoping my opinion will influence her decision.
“Okay. If you like them. They are nice.”
I grin. “And I like these.” I hold up a brown leather knee-high boot with a heel.
“Maxim,” Alessia objects.
“Please.”
She gives me a reluctant smile. “Okay.”
* * *
“We can leave your boots for recycling here,” Maxim says as they stand at the sales counter. Alessia looks down at the new boots she’s wearing and then at her old pair. They are all she has left of her clothes from home.
“I would like to keep them,” she says.
“Why?”
“They are from Albania.”
“Oh.” He looks surprised. “Well, perhaps we can get them resoled.”
“Resoled? What is this?”
“Repaired. The bottom of the shoe replaced. Understand?”
“Yes. Yes,” she replies, excited. “Resoled.”
She watches as Maxim hands over his credit card once more.
How can she ever repay him?
One day she’ll earn enough money to pay him back. In the meantime she has to think of something she could do for him. “Remember, I want to cook,” she says.
This is one way.
“Today?” Maxim asks as he picks up her bags.
“Yes. I want to cook for you. To say thank you. Tonight.”
“Okay. Let’s take these bags back to the car, and we can shop for food after we’ve had some lunch.”
They dump the bags in the small trunk of the car, and as they walk hand in hand to a restaurant, Alessia tries not to dwell on Maxim’s generosity. It is rude in her culture to reject a gift, but she knows what her father would call her if he knew what she was doing. He would either kill her or have a heart attack. Probably both. She’s already dishonored him, and until recently she had the bruises to prove it. Once again she wishes he were more open-minded—and less violent.