‘OK. I’ll go now. In these old jeans and vest, with my hair tied back like this and my shades on. There’s an outside chance nobody will recognise me, or look twice.’
‘That’s the girl,’ he said, kissing her nose. ‘Do you want me to write you a list?’
‘No, I think I can remember. Thanks.’
She left the room without looking back.
‘I’ll finish off in here, then,’ he called after her.
Yes, she thought. You do that. You’ll finish me off, too.
She put on her sunglasses and posed in front of the mirror, desperate to be as unrecognisable as possible. On TV, she always had big hair, but she didn’t bother here in Bledburn, so that was one bonus. A different hairstyle was often as good a disguise as any. No make-up, boring clothes, flip-flops. A person would have to look twice and, in a busy street, most people wouldn’t bother.
In a sex shop, though …
Oh, God. With any luck, it would be empty. Mid-afternoon on a working weekday had to be a safe-ish time to do this kind of thing. An idea occurred to her. She could pretend she was buying them for a hen party. Yes, that was how she would rationalise it. The stuff wasn’t for her – it was jokey gifts for some bride-to-be. Excellent.
Thus buoyed up, she made the drive to Trentham in double quick time, parked in one of the little short-stay parks on the fringes of town, where the shop was situated, and hurried through the hinterland of corner pubs and charity shops until she found the unlovely 70s concrete mini-mall she sought.
It was near-deserted, apart from some mums of small kids, smoking and chatting outside a bakery while their little ones tore into sausage rolls in their buggies. None of them registered her and she passed as quickly as she dared without risking attention for being too quick.
The sex shop was in the corner unit. Its display was pink and floral, as if pretending to be a fashion boutique, but the only clothes in the window were very brief briefs and lacy basques.
Luckily, the door stood open, so she was able to flit inside without too much side-eyeing. She went over to an inoffensive display of nightdresses, pretending to take an interest in the flimsy negligees until the sales clerk looked away. It was quiet all right – too quiet. The woman at the till
was clearly bored and would probably watch her like a hawk. She might even ask her if she needed any help. And then the possibility of being recognised loomed large.
She moved slowly past the nightgowns and into the lingerie. Most of it was quite ordinary; the kind of thing you could get from any department store. As she walked further towards the back of the shop, it began to be made of strange fabrics, like PVC and latex, and holes appeared at inopportune places, like the nipples and crotch.
She began to fluster. Had Jason been mistaken about this place? She couldn’t see anything in the way of sex toys – the entire floor was given over to clothes, about a fifth of them really racy and the rest quite suitable for giving to your fun aunty at Christmas. Closer to the till, rack upon rack of stockings, fishnet gloves and little fluffy bits and bobs could be acquired. Some books and magazines. A shelf of glittery make-up. Nothing looked remotely like a vibrator.
She was almost at the back, with the shiny black catsuits and the leather corsets, when she noticed a staircase heading down.
MORE ITEMS IN BASEMENT read the sign on the wall above.
Ah.
Feeling as if she was heading along the Styx into Hades, she took the first few steps down.
She felt the sales clerk’s gaze boring into her back as she made her descent. At least nothing was said.
In the basement, she was blessedly alone, and she needed to be because first sight of all that – God, what even was it all – was enough to bring her out in a cold sweat. She had an impression of lots of metal, and a noticeable smell of rubber. Chains and clips and cuffs and collars and … Oh, boy. It was all here, all right.
Vibrators were right there on her left, easy to find, but such quantities of styles and shapes and sizes and colours and materials that Jenna was sure she’d never be able to pick one.
She went to study the rows of samples, picking them up, weighing them in her hand, assessing them for potential fit and comfort. Why had Jason just said, ‘a vibrator’? Couldn’t he have been more specific? She was tempted to call him, except that she still had no landline and he had no mobile, so that would be a pointless exercise. Perhaps she’d nip into a phone shop, after this, and get him a cheap Pay As You Go.
In the meantime, she stared into a wall of flesh-coloured latex, interspersed with purple plastic and black glass and all variations in between. She was frowning at a long, thin number with a curved end, wondering how it worked, when a voice at her ear made her twitch and almost yelp.
‘Do you need any help?’
‘No, no, really. Fine.’
‘It’s just there’s such a lot to choose from these days,’ said the sales clerk sympathetically. ‘I remember when you had your rabbit or your plain plastic whatnot and that was that. But now, well, you’ve got your bullet, your butterfly, your g-spot, your magic wand …’ She enumerated on her fingers.
‘Yes, quite,’ said Jenna, trying to disguise her voice with a quantity of coughing.
‘I’ll leave you to it. But give me a shout if you need a hand.’