Short Story Sunday: S'Wonderful

They say history repeats itself; I am living proof. Every year I mean to be organised, and I mean to prepare myself for days like this, but I keep putting it off until the last possible second because – truthfully – I hate shopping malls. Yet, here I am, mulling over which bunch of flowers looks least offensive and most expensive. I can’t mask my horror at what people pay for six dying plant uteruses. You might have guessed I’m not a fan of flowers. But the person I am buying for is. I think she might like what they called the “Medley”. It’s got a purple-pink theme and there’s a whole lot of greenery. The price makes me feel ill.

The next step is to find an accompaniment for the flowers: despite those advertisements, flowers don’t say it all. And, besides, you can’t do anything with them except shove the stems in water and that gooey plant food they include and place it on a table or sideboard to slowly rot in its own juices. Perfume turns to pong rather quickly, if you know what I mean. No, it’s important to give chocolates or biscuits, wine or a scarf, something – anything – to justify the flora. I can’t help but wonder, as I appraise the rows of earrings, why we participate in this dance of lies where we buy stuff we might like for people who might want it purely as social insurance. I have settled on an assortment of rhinestone earrings and the medley for her vase. I hope she likes it. Even if she doesn’t, I’ll console myself with the lie that it’s the thought that counts. I hate that moment when (and it’s usually after I have re-gifted something) I see the faux joy on someone’s face at the plastic placemat that’s actually a candle shield! I had to add that exclamation mark so you’d know how enthusiastic I am. Did you detect the irony? (Thank goodness we’re on the same page.)

The only thing that makes these expeditions somewhat enjoyable is eavesdropping. You heard me. I mean, I cannot abide shopping with a friend, especially those svelte sorts who look good in everything and then agonise for hours over whether they should take the size 6 or size 8 denim jacket, and what a bargain it is at only eleven-ninety-nine. Oh, shut up. I like to listen when I shop. People think they’re invisible and start discussing all kinds of dirty laundry. I suppose I have been considered odd on more than one occasion when I surreptitiously (with varying degrees of success) follow people to hear more.

“It’s become something of a bad habit,” said Thandi. Look, I don’t really know their names, but I make them up and imagine it’s a sitcom.

“I’ve told you before, you need to dump him. All these booty calls with Andrew mean no other, more deserving men get to see your booty.”

“Sa-am! Why are you talking about my booty? Although, OMGEEE! I saw these jeans that are to die for.”

Now I’m bored. I wanted to know more about the bad habit. Pfft. I decide to peruse the lingerie section. I spot a tiff.

“Mom! Why did you bring me here?”

“I need your objective opinion about these. Do you think the red or black is better?”

“Holy cow, Mom! I’m not going to think about you naked.”

“Libby, come on. Don’t you want a new Daddy? I’m doing this for both of us.”

Ewwww. Make up counter, here I come.

“Since I started using the ivory, people have asked me if I’ve got yellow fever, Ricardo. I can’t go on like this.”

“Okay, Mrs Reeve, have a seat and I’ll get Felicia to bring out her colour chart.”

“Yellow, Ricardo!”

She doesn’t exactly look like a Minion, but I guess that’s her vanity talking. Poor woman. I catch a glimpse of myself in those awful shop mirrors. I look like an extra from The Corpse Bride – and those were puppets.

The layout of this section, where they keep the perfume, is dazzling. I love the glass containers with coffee beans to clear the nasal palate between sniffs. It never works for me but I sniff anyway. I love the exotic posters of celebrities and models airbrushed to within an inch of looking like Androids enticing me with their lusty expressions. I am such a perfume whore; I fall for it every time. I honestly believe that D&G will have me “Dreaming in Portofino” or that I’ll smell like a “Daisy” with the help of Mark Jacobs. Or that Armani will have men saying “Sí” at first sight.

“See anything you like?”

Where did he come from? “No. I’m just wishing.”

“Oh. I thought you might be shopping for a gift.” He gestures at the flowers and earrings.

“Yes, well spotted, Sherlock. But this is the extent of my love for the person who’ll get this.”

“And what about you? Shouldn’t you spoil yourself?”

I know I must resist this sales talk, but fragrances are my Kryptonite. “As I said, I’m just wishing.” I allow myself to look at him. I blink, twice. He looks just like that Calvin Klein underwear model from the men’s section. Well, hello there.

“Your wish is my command.”

“Do they teach you cheesy lines like that at marketing school?”

“I’m not a salesperson.”

“Then who are you?”

“My name is James.”

“Sounds like a predator’s name. Are you going to rob me?”

“Not today.”

Well, this is awkward. I’ve got Captain Dreamboat gawking at me and I’m squeezing the flowers so hard I think they might be wilting and my legs will not move. This must be a waking dream and I’m having sleep paralysis.

He takes my right hand and tilts it so that the palm is up. The display nearest us is Armani and he retrieves my favourite, Acqua di Gioia, water of joy. The sleep paralysis is embarrassing. He slides his thumb over my wrist to move my bracelet out of the way and then spritzes Armani on the crease. After replacing the tester on the shelf, he holds my hand, studying it almost. Then, with his other hand, he takes my elbow and guides my wrist to his nose. He inhales. His eyes close. 

“You smell delicious.”

“You mean, ‘expensive’.” I cannot help but smile.

He opens his eyes and I think Cupid was behind me the whole time because now I’m seeing cartoon hearts all around his head. He drops my hand and I bring it to my chest, as if to protect it. I realise that I’m holding a card and look at it. It’s black with silver text declaring that the owner is James Anderson, CEO. I can’t read further because I suddenly feel clammy – the prelude to fainting.

“When next you feel like wishing, drop me a line. I hate telephones. My email is on the back.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll remember this.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb before brushing past me. Ricardo and Mrs Reeve are still arguing about her yellow complexion. Libby and her Mom are debating the merits of lace over satin. Thandi is telling Sam that while Andrew is a bad habit, habits are hard to break. I am a statue amongst the perfume, alternating between grinning and glancing at the card in my hand. Diana Krall starts up over the PA system.

“S’Wonderful. S’Marvellous...”

I couldn’t agree more.