Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

“Is it very expensive?”

Helene nodded. “Especially this shade.” She caressed her bag. “It’s all hand sewn. No two pieces are exactly alike.”

“And where’d you buy yours?”

Helene was staring at her appraisingly. “You’re not thinking of starting any trouble, are you?”

“Oh, no. No, of course not. I just want to look. I’m . . . curious.”

More of that appraising stare. Denise wanted to hide behind the settee.

“You want one, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not! Maybe it’s morbid on my part, but I’m curious to see what else they’re doing with . . . foet these days.”

“Very well,” Helene said, and it occurred to Denise that Helene had never said Very well when she’d lived in Fairfield. “Go to Blume’s – it’s on Fifth, a little ways up from Gucci’s.”

“I know it.”

“Ask for Rolf. When you see him, tell him you’re interested in some of his better accessories. Remember that: ‘better accessories.’ He’ll know what you’re looking for.”

Denise passed Blume’s three times, and each time she told herself she’d keep right on walking and find a taxi to take her down to Grand Central for the train back to Fairfield. But something forced her to turn and go back for one more pass. Just one more. This time she ducked into a slot in the revolving door and swung into the warm, brightly lit interior.

Where was the harm in just looking?

When he appeared, Rolf reminded her of a Rudolf Valentino wannabe – stiletto thin in his black pin-stripe suit, with plastered-down black hair and mechanical pencil mustache. He was a good ten years younger than Denise and barely an inch taller, with delicate, fluttery hands, lively eyes, and a barely audible voice.

He gave Denise a careful up-and-down after she’d spoken the code words, then extended his arm to the right.

“Of course. This way, please.”

He led her to the back of the store, down a narrow corridor, and then through a glass door into a small, indirectly lit showroom. Denise found herself surrounded by glass shelves lined with handbags, belts, even watch bands. All made of foet.

“The spelling is adapted from the archaic medical term,” Rold said, closing the door behind them.

“Really?” She noticed he didn’t actually say the word: foetal

“Now . . . what may I show you?”

“May I browse a little?”

“ Mais oui. Take your time.”

Denise wandered the pair of aisles, inspecting the tiers of shelves and all the varied items they carried. She noticed something: Almost everything was black or very dark.

“The bag my friend showed me was a lighter color.”

“Ah, yes. I’m sorry, but we’re out of white. That goes first, you know.”

“No, this wasn’t white. Itwas more of a pale, golden brown.”

“Yes. We call that white. After all, it’s made from white hide. It’s relatively rare.”

“‘Hide?’”

He smiled. “Yes. That’s what we call the . . . material.”

The material : white fetal skin.

“Do you have any pieces without all the stitching? Something with a smoother look?”

“I’m afraid not. I mean, you have to understand, we’re forced by the very nature of the source of the material to work with little pieces.” He gestured around. “Notice too that there are no gloves. None of the manufacturers wants to be accused of making kid gloves.”

Rolf smiled. Denise could only stare at him.

He cleared his throat. “Trade humor.”

Little pieces.

Hide.

Kid gloves.

Suddenly she wanted to run, but she held on. The urge passed.

Rolf picked up a handbag from atop a nearby display case. It was a lighter brown than the others, but still considerably darker than Helene’s.

“A lot of people are going for this shade. It’s reasonably priced. Imported from India.”

“Imported? I’d have thought there’d be plenty to go around just from the US.”

He sighed. “There would be if people weren’t so provincial in their attitudes about giving up the hides. The tanneries are offering a good price for them. I don’t understand some people. Anyway, we have to import from the Third World. India is a great source.”

Denise picked up another, smaller bag of a similar shade. So soft, so smooth, just like Helene’s.

“Indian, too?”

“Yes, but that’s a little more expensive. That’s male.”

She looked at him questioningly.

His eyes did a tiny roll. “They hardly ever abort males in India. Only females. Two thousand-to-one.”

Denise put it down and picked up a similar model, glossy, ink black. This would be a perfect accent to so many of her ensembles.

“Now that’s—”

“Please don’t tell me anything about it. Just the price.”

He told her. She repressed a gasp. That would just about empty her account of the money she’d put aside for all her fashion bargains. On one item. Was it worth it?

She reached into her old pocketbook, the now dowdy-looking Fendi, and pulled out her gold MasterCard. Rolf smiled and lifted it from her fingers.

Minutes later she was back among the hoi polloi in the main shopping area, but she wasn’t one of them. She’d been where they couldn’t go, and that gave her special feeling.

Before leaving Blume’s, Denise put her Fendi in the store bag and hung the new foet bag over her arm. The doorman gave her a big smile as he passed her through to the sidewalk.

The afternoon was dying and a cold wind had sprung up. She stood in the fading light with the wind cutting her like an icy knife and suddenly she felt horrible.

I’m toting a bag made from the skin of an unborn child.

Why? Why had she bought it? What had possessed her to spend that kind of money on such a ghoulish . . . artifact ? Because that was just what it was – not an accessory, an artifact.

She opened the store bag and reached in to switch the new foet for her trusty Fendi. She didn’t want to be seen with it.

And Brian! Good God, how was she going to tell Brian?

“ What ?”

Brian never talked with food in his mouth. He had better manners than that. But Denise had just told him about Helene’s bag and at the moment his mouth, full of food, hung open as he stared at her with wide eyes.

“Brian, please close your mouth.”

He swallowed. “ Helene ? Helene had something made of human skin?”

. . .not human . . . at least according to the Supreme Court . . .

“It’s called foet , Brian.”

“I know damn well what it’s called! They could call it chocolate mousse but it would still be human skin. They give it a weird name so people won’t look at them like they’re a bunch of Nazis when they sell it! Helene – how could she?”

. . . they’re already dead. Denise . . .

Brian’s tone became increasingly caustic. Denise felt almost as if he were talking to her.

“I don’t believe it! What’s got into her? One person kills an unborn child and the other makes the poor thing’s skin into a pocketbook! And Helene of all people! My God, is that what a big pay raise and moving to Greenwich does to you?”

Denise barely heard Brian as he ranted on. Thank God she’d had the good sense not to tell him about her own bag. He’d have been apoplectic.

No doubt about it. She was going to return that bag as soon as she could get back into the city.

Denise stood outside Blume’s, dreading the thought of facing Rolf in that tiny showroom and returning her foet, her beautiful foet.

She pulled it out of the shopping bag and stared at it. Exquisite. Strange how a little extra time could turn your attitude around. The revulsion that had overwhelmed her right after she’d bought it had faded. Perhaps because every day during the past week – a number of times each day, to be honest- she’d taken it out and looked at it, held it, caressed it. Inevitably, its true beauty had shown through and captured her. Her initial beguilement had returned to the fore.