“Well, it’s lovely,” I said, a little over-awed by the array of illuminated gadgetry in front of me. At least I knew how to buckle the seatbelt.
“It’s a TTS Black edition,” he told me, obviously expecting me to be impressed by that gobbledygook. “I’m used to a bigger car at home but this sure packs a punch.” He pressed a button to start the engine and pulled away at speed, as if to emphasise his point. Garrett drove like a racing driver, weaving around other cars whenever the opportunity arose. Both hands braced the wheel, maintaining complete control, as the automatic transmission meant he didn’t have to change gears. A couple of light taps on the steering wheel had Holy Grail by Jay-Z pounding from every corner of the small space.
Ensconced in the luxury of Garrett’s car made me think about Jake and how different it was being driven by him, in his old van with only the FM radio for background music. This was a whole different experience. And not just the car.
Swerving into a space in the Lanes, Garrett pulled a pair of sunglasses out from the visor and put them on before coming round to open my door. I knew better than to let myself out and was a little daunted at the Garrett I was now confronted by. He was wearing his usual smart jeans and shoes; I had yet to see him in anything remotely approaching trainers. Today, however, he was sporting a fitted navy jacket and a white shirt; combined with the shades, he looked more like a successful businessman than a student. And I was out of my depth, dressed in River Island jeans, Converse and my trusty parka.
Garrett didn’t let go of my hand after helping me out of the car and I was glad to have something, someone, to hold on to in this strange world of more money than sense. He guided us to a shop on a prominent corner of the narrow lane of designer boutiques and cocktail bars. Unsurprisingly, this was not a part of Brighton I had yet become acquainted with. Holding the door open for me, he ushered me into the shop which I swear only had about twenty things hung up at intervals around the clinical white space. What was that all about?
The sales assistant worked out that Garrett was the one with the money and sashayed over to him, an inane smile fixed on her plasticky face.
“Good morning, Sir. How can I help you today?” Preferring to run in the opposite direction when confronted by salespeople, I was surprised by the ease of his reply.
“Good morning. I’m looking for a gift for my mother. Something small preferably, as it will need to be shipped to the US.” Plastic-face almost dropped her knickers at his deep American voice. The clothes clearly had more class than she did. Not trusting my firecrackering tendencies around her, I wandered over to a display of dresses on the opposite side. Most of the stuff was hideous; all leopard-skin patterns or diamante-embellished satin whispering the promise of upscale Christmas parties. Out of bemused interest, I looked at a couple of price tags. Oh, my freaking God! Those god-awful dresses were several hundred pounds each! I mean, who would want to spend that much money to look that trashy?
Then it caught my eye. Alone on a nearby hook was the dress. You know what I mean: the dress you know will make you look so beautiful, men will fall at your feet with declarations of undying love. This dress mocked all of the other dresses in the shop by virtue of its simplicity. It was a dusky-rose-coloured lace skater dress; demure but sexy, girly but sophisticated. Before I had a chance to touch it, to fall further in love with it, I heard Garrett bring me back to reality.
“Neve, which do you think is best?” He held up two silk scarves, each edged with fur.
“Umm,” I deliberated, unsure whether to say they were both awful. “The grey?”
“Yes, that’s the one I preferred. I’ll take this one,” he told the assistant, handing it over before fishing his wallet from his back pocket.
“Excellent choice, Sir. Fox fur is very this season. Would you like it gift-wrapped?” Fox fur? He was buying bloody animal fur?
Before he could pay, I stood close and whispered as close to his ear as I could get.
“You can’t buy real fur. That’s hideous.”
“Grow up, Neve. It’s practical. Boston is much colder than here; Mother will need something warm.” He had angled us so the sales assistant could at least pretend not to hear us whilst she wrapped the scarf in layers of tissue paper.
“Yes, but it’s fur. Buy her a bloody North Face jacket or something if you’re worried about the cold.”