Chapter 21 Chapter 20: Shopping
Joel’s little hatchback porty, a battered pink thing covered in faint scratches and a layer of dust, did not fit the muscle-bound Nate he had become. It was a relic from his Polli days, all rounded edges and cheerful efficiency, a stark contrast to his now broad shoulders and the sharp, defined line of his jaw. But the familiar, slightly cluttered sanctuary of that little porty, with its fuzzy teddy bear glued to the dashboard and the soundbox blaring out a really loud, quintessentially Polli uplifting dance number, was just what I needed right now. The thumping bass and infectious synth felt like a lifeline, shaking the tears loose from my soul.
Before long, Joel reached over and turned down the music. While driving, he looked over to me, his eyes doing a quick, assessing sweep. A slow grin spread across his face. “Your tits are bigger,” he laughed, the statement so blunt and Joel-like that it shocked a wet chuckle out of me.
“Yeah,” I snorted, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “You’re not the only one that’s noticed today.”
“So,” he said, his tone shifting from teasing to serious. “What’s up, Nanda?”
“I just need a friend,” I said, the words simple and true. “A Polli friend. And you’re the only one I got.”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” he smirked, flexing one arm playfully on the steering wheel. “I am a Nate now.”
“Yeah, but you’re still the only Polli friend I seem to have,” I insisted. “And I really, really need a friend right now.”
He looked over again, his expression softening with a genuine worry that almost made him swerve into oncoming traffic, nearly killing us in the process. “So, what’s up?” he asked, refocusing on the road.
“Can’t we just… talk about you right now?” I pleaded, desperate for a distraction from the maelstrom in my head. “How’s your life?”
It was the only little seed Joel needed to bloom into full swing. His face lit up.
“Well,” he began, a new energy in his voice. “I have met a Polli. She’s really nice.”
“A Polli-friend?” I asked, latching onto the normalcy of gossip.
“Not yet,” he said with a confident wink. “But she will be.”
“Is this O.K. then?” I asked, referring to his new Nate identity dating a Polli.
“Sure, she’s cool. And we aren’t hitched or anything,” he said, then his tone dipped slightly, becoming uncharacteristically tentative. “…and provided me and you are just friends…right?”
“That’s why I rang you,” I said, assuring him. “I need to feel alive. I need a friend. Sorry, but you are gonna have to shop for me like the old days.”
“Are you kidding?” he exclaimed, his earlier worry replaced by pure delight. “I really miss that shit! But I don’t know how to say this…” He gave me another critical side-eye. “…but you look like crap, sweetheart. Let’s get our nails done first and get you a makeover. My treat.”
“A makeover? Nails done?” The idea was a burst of light. “That’s just what I need. But are you O.K. with that stuff… you know, you being a Nate and all?”
“Like I said,” he replied, a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “It’s the only thing I miss.”
We found a salon. We had our nails done; mine a classic red roulette and Joel, refusing to fully conform, opted for a very un-Polli French manicure tips. Then he paid for a complete makeover for me. The artist worked magic, covering the evidence of my tears and highlighting my new Polli features until I almost didn’t recognize the confident, put-together Polli in the mirror.
“I need to shop, too,” I said, feeling a new sense of purpose. “I need underwear…like yesterday. And clothes for tonight. Sexy but casual.”
“Ooh, who’s the lucky Nate?” Joel asked, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Not so lucky. A Polli, actually. But let’s not go there yet,” I deflected, the thought of Silver still a complicated knot in my stomach.
“I also need a dress. Something formal. Something that says, ‘I am beautifully intelligent, and you need me to work for you.’”
“You got a job interview?” he asked, intrigued.
“Yes. Not really. But maybe…” I took a breath. “I’m going for a dinner date with Doctor Norton and a diplomat called Lord Vincent.”
“Norton? That old clam who mentored you?”
“The very same. And if all works out, I might get an internship with Lord Vincent, A diplomat”
“You go, Polli!” Joel whooped, giving me a high-five.
After the makeover, we hit the shopping mall. With help from Joel, who was still the best shopper I had ever known, a skill honed during his Polli years, I found two perfectly fitted bras with six pairs of matching underwear: three string and three briefs. I also bought a high-impact sports bra, a lesson learned from my painful run.
Joel, with an unerring eye, found me a gorgeous, slinky wool knit jumper that fell seductively from the shoulders, which he perfectly paired with the black skintight trousers I’d found for the date with Silver tonight. I finished the look with some kick-arse black pumps with a lethally high heel.
My account was bleeding dry. The digital readout on my com made me wince; I only had 500 gists left.
“I need something for tomorrow night, too,” I said, the reality of my empty wallet crashing into my newfound confidence. The shopping spree was over, but the real-world problems were just beginning.
We rounded every store in the place, our earlier excitement slowly curdling into a grim, determined frustration. Everything in my meagre price range felt cheap, frumpy, or utterly wrong, a sad imitation of the elegance I needed to project. The glittering promise of the mall was beginning to feel like a taunt. Then, on our way toward the exits, defeated, we passed the glowing, minimalist facade of a high-line designer shop. Mannequins stood like frozen royalty behind the polished glass.
Joel stopped dead, his hand shooting out to grab my arm. "Whoa. Nanda. Look."
He pointed, and my breath caught in my throat. There, displayed under a soft, focused light, was the most beautiful creation I had ever seen. It was a dress woven from what looked like living worm-thread, a tight-fitting, ankle-length gown that seemed to drink the light and dream it into something new. As we shifted our weight, passing slowly by the window, its colour subtly shifted from a deep, midnight lilac to a mysterious, shimmering plum.
"That one," Joel whispered, his voice full of awe. "That would look great on you."
"My entire bank account is a rounding error for that place," I said, my heart aching with want. "I can't afford things from in there."
"Just try it on," he urged, a mischievous glint in his eye. "For my sake. It will be fun. What's the harm?"
The harm, of course, was falling in love with something I could never have. But his enthusiasm was infectious. We pushed through the heavy glass door into the hushed, perfumed air of the boutique. A tall, severe assistant with a perpetually tight-nosed expression looked us up and down with clear scepticism but, recognizing a spark of genuine desire, reluctantly fetched the dress.
In the changing room, the fabric slid over my skin like cool, liquid silk. It was a perfect fit, hugging every new curve as if it had been tailored specifically for this new, bewildering body of mine. I walked out on trembling legs to stand before the long, gold-trimmed reflector. I barely recognized the Polli staring back. The dress didn't just fit; it transformed. The shifting colours played over my skin, and the cut lent me a grace and power I'd never felt. I looked like a goddess of days gone by, timeless and formidable.
Even the tight-nosed assistant’s expression softened into one of genuine admiration. "It is... exceptional on you," she conceded, her voice barely a whisper.
"You must have it," Joel said, his voice firm. "It was made for you."
My heart soared for one glorious second before crashing back to earth. I fumbled for the discreet label tucked inside the seam. The number printed there, 3000 gists, might as well have been a million. It was more than I made in a month.
"I can't," I said, the words thick with disappointment. I looked at Joel, my eyes pleading for him to understand. "I don't have the money. It's impossible."
"My treat," he said simply, already pulling his cardholder from his pocket.
"Joel, you can't," I hissed, my face flushing with a mixture of humiliation and overwhelming gratitude. "That's too much. It's insane."
"I can, and I will," he said, his tone brooking no argument. He gently ushered the now-beaming assistant toward the register, handing her his card before I could form another protest.
On the way out of the shop, the weight of the elegant garment bag over my arm felt like a dream. I felt amazing, powerful, seen, yet so utterly humble. I didn't know how to thank him. The words "thank you" felt pathetically inadequate for a gift that wasn't just a dress, but a suit of armour for the most important night of my life.
I turned to him, my eyes welling up, while I was still searching for the words that could possibly convey what I felt, a voice broke in from behind us, sharp and unfamiliar.
“Joel?”
A sassy-looking Polli stood there.