Page 79 of Deliah

“It was relevant!”

We regrouped, then marched into Gucci next. I approached the counter while Cherry lingered near the accessories, pretending to admire a belt she’d probably pawn for rent if she had to.

“Hi, are you currently hiring?” I asked.

A sharp-faced guy in an immaculately tailored suit looked me up and down. “What experience do you have?”

“We worked in a high-end bar on an island,” I said confidently.

He tilted his head. “Which bar?”

I opened my mouth. Then stopped. My eyes flicked to Cherry, who turned around with a grin that said, “Don’t you dare.”

“Erm…” I started. “It was very exclusive.”

Cherry burst out laughing. “It was a strip club, mate. But the cocktails were good.”

I couldn’t hold it in—I started giggling, then snorting, then full-on crying with laughter. The sales guy looked like he was about to call security, and we practically ran out, clutching our sides.

“Okay,” I gasped once we made it outside. “This is actually a fucking disaster.”

Cherry wiped her eyes, still wheezing. “Deliah. I kinda knew the high-end shops weren’t gonna work for us. We’re absolute twats in heels. That woman in Prada could smell it.”

“Alright,” I said, fanning myself. “Let’s try something smaller. Boutiques. We’re cute. Maybe someone’ll take pity on us.”

We hit five, maybe six little shops. Boutiques run by older women in floaty kaftans, stiff white men with clipboards, and the occasional teen assistant who didn’t know what day it was. One after another, we got politely—sometimes not so politely—turned away.

“Not hiring.”

“We only take bilinguals.”

“You’re not really what we’re looking for right now.”

“I think you’d be better off… somewhere else.”

By the last one, Cherry muttered, “Do we scream ‘unemployed twats,’ or is that just how I feel inside?”

I exhaled hard. “I need a drink.”

“Now you’re speaking my language.”

We found a cute café and sat on the terrace. Two hours, three mimosas, and a cheese board later, Cherry had gone from light-hearted to slightly feral.

“Let’s try some bars,” she said, slurring just slightly. “They’re much more likely to take us.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure? You’re about two sips away from starting a fight with a bouncer.”

“Oh, please. I’m charming.”

She wasn’t. We tried two bars. One wasn’t hiring. The other had a manager who looked Cherry up and down and made a comment about her skirt being too short for a ‘family venue.’

She smiled sweetly, leaned over the counter, and said, “Fuck off, Grandad.”

I dragged her out before he called the police.

“This is not going to plan.” I groaned.

“We still have the clubs,” Cherry said, ever the opportunist.