A fluff piece about the sort of items Fiona carries in her purse. No spoilers.
"Oh, crap." Sam put down his beer and brushed at his shirt. "Beer on my new shirt."
"That's new?" Michael asked.
Sam shot him a glance. "Yes."
"It's nice," Michael lied glibly. Garish Hawaiian was not really his style. Across from him, Fiona giggled.
"Don't mind him," Fiona said, apparently deciding to side with Sam today. It was one of her more annoying habits; her loyalties flip-flopped depending on what she wanted. "Michael would wear nothing but Armani if he could."
Michael was about to refute this when Sam reached down and into Fiona's purse.
There are a few things you don't do around women if you value certain parts of your anatomy. You don't tell her she looks fat. You don't sleep with her sister.
And you never ever go through her purse without her permission.
"Hey!" Fiona shrieked and slapped Sam. He drew back, a pained expression on his face.
"I was looking for serviettes," the older man protested.
"What makes you think I have any in my purse?" Fiona demanded.
"Women keep all sorts of junk in their purse," Sam said.
Fiona scowled. "Junk?" she asked as if he'd accused her of being a whore. "Junk!"
She suddenly upturned her bag over the table, scattering the contents across the wooden surface. Things clattered, items caught the sunlight on their polished edges, something rolled around until it hit Fiona's cocktail glass and came to a stop. "This is not junk."
She gazed at the paraphernalia and after a moment's consideration picked up her wallet. "For carrying money," she said. "And credit cards. Except this one isn't really a credit card." She slid the card, which looked at first glance like any other bank issued card, from the leather holder and waved it at Michael. A tiny blade poked its way out of the card. Tiny, but sharp, he was sure.
"Nice. Put it away," Michael told her, neutrally, though he really didn't want to get thrown out of the bar for possessing weaponry.
Fiona put in her bag, commenting, "The strap on the bag is reinforced leather, you know. It unclips from the bag by this metal clips, which you wouldn't want someone swinging near your eye. And any leather strap is useful for strangling someone."
Michael nodded, sipping his beer. He'd used more unusual items as a makeshift garrotte.
Next she reached for a small aerosol can. "Body spray. Not as effective as pepper spray in someone's eyes, but better than nothing. Can double as fuel for a mini flamethrower in a pinch, which is why I carry a lighter though I don't smoke."
This latter sentence was directed at Sam, who had found said chased silver lighter and was tinkering with it. At her steely gaze he sheepishly put it back on the table and gave her a cheesy apologetic grin. Her hand shot out like a cobra, retrieved the lighter and put both it and the can away.
"There's tissues," Sam pointed out, risking further wrath.
"They're not serviettes," Fiona scolded, gathering the paper tissues up and some loose change, ready to throw these back into the depths of her bag.
"What about this?" Sam asked, picking up a small plastic wrapped item.
Fiona stared at him. Michael coughed delicately.
"Er, you probably don't want to know," Michael said.
Fiona lifted an eyebrow. "Your ladies maybe don't need such things in their age bracket," she said. "I'm still…"
"Fee," Michael said desperately.
She glared at him. "What's wrong with menstruating? It's a perfectly acceptable term." She gave an evil grin. "Or would you prefer fertile?"
Michael choked on his beer and had to lean over to cough. Sam's features were frozen in horror and he dropped the wrapper as if he'd suddenly realized it was a hand grenade with the pin pulled.
When he'd caught his breath, Michael took another swallow of beer, and, determined to appear worldly and not in the least embarrassed, said, "If you put one of those in a gas tank it swells up and blocks the fuel from reaching the engine."
"That's enough show and tell," Sam decided. "Especially the tell part."
Fiona picked up a small item patterned with roses and flipped it open. "So you don't want to see my lipstick holder?"
"Your lipstick's over here," Michael offered, retrieving the container from near his own glass.
"Yes, because I use this for keeping my lockpicks in, away from prying eyes." Fiona displayed her tools, then closed the holder and returned it and the proffered lipstick itself to the bag.
This piqued Sam's interest enough that he forgot his earlier embarrassment and reached for what he assumed to be a safe item. "What about this?" He brandished a ring of keys, which had a large enamelled fob attached to it.
"House keys. I'm sure I don't need to tell you useful a weapon a key can be," Fiona said. "The key fob, however, is actually a flash drive. With some pre-loaded password hacking software and a fairly powerful virus."
Michael sipped at his beer. "Because you never know when you'll be called upon to steal or destroy data?"
Fiona also carried notepaper, a pen, a pencil, a comb, spare hair pins, a whistle, her mobile phone complete with camera and a spare SIM card, and, to Sam's approval, a tiny flask with one shot of whiskey in it. Her first aid supplies consisted of a styptic pencil, a sticking plaster, and a pre-threaded needle. The whisky was for sterilising or pain killing, she added, take your pick.
There was only one item left on the table now and Michael picked the red circular object up. It opened via a small catch to reveal a hand mirror.
"For signalling," Michael suggested.
Fiona nodded and snatched it back, checked her lipstick, and closed the compact mirror. "And it's a mirror," she said, adding, "I am a girl, Michael."
Sam sniggered and Michael smiled a little too widely.
"Sam," Michael said, seeing the look of fury on Fiona's face, and pushing his chair back. "Run."
Never annoy your girlfriend while she's so heavily armed. Which, in my case, means never.