‘I can return it in ten weeks, if it isn’t perfect?’ she checked.
‘Absolutely.’ The assistant swaddled the purchase in toweling, before placing it in the gold, cardboard carry-bag.
‘Even if it’s a small fault, like a mole?’
‘Of course, madam. It will simply be sold as seconds, and reduced in price accordingly.’
That explained the queue she’d passed when entering the shop: desperate, clambering people, obviously waiting for the sale to start. She’d kept her distance, in case the scent of their poverty brushed off on her.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said, ticking the purchase off her list.
Author’s Note: I’ve been wondering (since having children) what having a ‘perfect’ baby (through genetics/cloning) would do to the notion of ‘family’.
