For a moment I’m silent. No way am I admitting I forgot to bring a bag for life.
“I don’t believe in bags, actually,” I say at last. “My rule is, ‘Buy only what you can carry.’ ”
“But you can’t carry all that,” says the girl.
“My sister will help me,” I say without missing a beat. “You’ll help me get all this out to the car, won’t you? And, Suze?” I raise my voice. “I don’t want to wreck the planet, so could you help me too?”
Between us we get all my jars into Suze’s boot and go back into the shop for Suze to pay.
“Excuse me?” the girl at the till says to me. “You forgot to take your last jar.” She holds out the empty jar and I take it nonchalantly, wanting to impress Jess in some way.
“Thanks,” I say. “Maybe I’ll fill it with…black turtle beans.”
I have no idea what you do with black turtle beans, but they sound totally worthy.
“I love black turtle beans,” I add to Jess. “They’re so vegan.”
I saunter over to a massive glass dispenser labeled Black Turtle Beans, place my jar underneath, and twist the handle. At once, small dried black beans start pouring out in a gush, and I smile at Jess. When the jar is nearly full, I casually twist the handle back—but it won’t go. I try again, but it’s stuck. Shit.
Shit.
To my horror, beans have started cascading over the top of my jar and clattering onto the floor. I desperately yank at the handle, but I can’t shift it, and the beans are coming faster and faster.
“What the hell?” says the girl behind the till, as everyone turns to stare at me and the torrent of beans. “Turn the handle back! Quick!”
“I’m trying!” I say, my face boiling. “What do you think I’m doing?”
The girl leaps up from her seat and hurries toward me, but even before she gets there, it’s too late. The clattering has come to an end. The dispenser is empty. There are beans all over the floor. I hear a sudden snort from Suze’s direction and look up to see her hand clamped over her mouth.
“I’ll buy them, obviously,” I say quickly, before the girl can utter a word. “All of them. They’ll be so useful for…dishes.”
“You’ll buy them all?” The girl in the sack eyes me in disbelief.
“Of course!”
“Uh-huh.” She thinks for a moment, then lifts her eyebrows. “How do you intend to transport them? Do you need a bag? By any chance?”
She sounds so snotty, I feel a flare of indignation.
“No, I do not need a bag,” I say coolly. “As I mentioned before, I’m an ethical, bag-free consumer. I will therefore carry them…er…in my skirt,” I say in inspiration.
“In your skirt?”
“Yes!” I say defiantly. I make a hammock out of my Rixo midi skirt—which is ideally shaped—and start to scoop beans into it. “See?”
Suze gives another sudden snort and comes over to where I’m kneeling on the floor.
“Bex,” she says, “that’s a great plan. Obviously. But if you didn’t mind compromising your ethical principles just a tad…we could use a cardboard box?”
* * *
—
Hmph. I still think I could have got those beans out of there in my skirt. I could have stored some in the glove compartment and some in the boot. The car could have been our black-turtle-bean storage facility.
On the other hand, I guess it was quicker to sweep them all into a box, pay for them, and head into the café. Now we’re sitting at a window table, all cozily together. We’ve ordered our food and we’re sipping our water, and Suze and I keep glancing at each other. It’s time to tackle Jess, with as much sensitivity and empathy as we can muster.
“Wait till you see your vegan turkey on Christmas Day,” I say to Jess as a preamble. “It’s going to be amazing!”
“Great,” says Jess.
I glance yet again at Suze and wonder how to proceed. Our plan was to help Jess “open up”—but how?
“So…how’s life in Chile?” I begin cautiously. “It must be hard. How’s…Tom?”