If, and only if, you have the money to make things run smoothly for yourself. And with our bag we can make things run smoothly.
Sixty seconds done. I check the stick. That cross is definitely blue. Shit. How can that be, though? Isn’t it supposed to take ages to get pregnant? I suppose it has been two whole months of trying. No, can’t be. Must have done it wrong. I check the pack. No, I haven’t got it wrong; a cross means pregnant. Blank is not pregnant. Huh.
One test left. Not much pee left.
Sixty seconds pass.
Blue cross.
Shit. I’m having a child.
When I finally get out of the bathroom Mark is in the study booking us two flights to Switzerland. I stand over his shoulder for a few minutes until he turns.
“You okay?” He smirks. I’m standing there in silence. I guess he thinks I’m shirking my duties while he’s a hive of industry.
I try to speak but I can’t say it. I can’t tell him. It’ll mess up the plan. I’ll mess up all the plans.
“Yeah, I’m fine, sorry,” I say. “Completely zoned out.”
He chuckles as I head back out into the hallway to unpack the rest of our things.
It’s 8 A.M. in Terminal 5 of Heathrow Airport. We’re here early; our flight to Switzerland isn’t due to depart for another two hours.
Mark is on the phone to a man called Tanguy. Richard, Mark’s old Swiss banking colleague, put them in contact. You remember Richard. He was the one with Mark the first night we met, with the hooker? Well, it turns out all those hours of Mark babysitting Richard’s dates with escorts finally paid off. This time Richard’s hooking Mark up.
Tanguy works at UCB Banque Privée Suisse. Today I’ll be setting up a business account. Our very own shell account. It’ll be just a numbered account, no name, no questions. Innocuous. This way I can pay myself, or us, straight into my British business account through the shell account. Monthly. I can pay self-employment tax on those earnings. I can legitimatize the money. Once it hits my account it will just be plain old taxable income. There’ll be a solid paper trail, all perfectly legal, if not entirely ethical. We can pay off the house, invest, plan for the future, for the little life growing slowly inside me. Half Mark, half me. With the money in the bank the pressure will be off Mark to get a new job straightaway, any job going. He can take his time, find the right fit. We can go back to the way we used to be. We’ll have money for our new life together. Which I see is more important now than ever.
But first I need to get something appropriate to wear for our appointment. I have got to look like the kind of person who would be opening this sort of account, the kind of person who would have one million dollars in cash. We need to go shopping. I need a costume and Mark assured me we’d find something suitable here, in the designer stores of Terminal 5, hence our early arrival.
I look around the store options as Mark finishes up his call. The clean, fresh, gleaming glass fronts of Chanel, Hermès, Prada, Dior, Gucci, Burberry, Louis Vuitton, Bottega Veneta, as they bend all around the huge concourse. Their windows filled with beautiful, expensive things. Candy stores of shoes, jackets, dresses, and bags. Consumer heaven. Mark hangs up and turns to me, an eyebrow raised.
“Done. Right. Let’s go shopping.” He grins and takes my arm in his. “Where to first, Mrs. Roberts?”
I sweep the concourse with my eyes once more. Suddenly slightly nervous. We’ll be using our own money to shop today, but ultimately we’re spending the money we found. I think of the plane deep underwater, its passengers, and remember Mark’s words: they were bad people. And we aren’t bad people, are we? No. No, we are not. I shake the thoughts away.
“Chanel?” I offer. It looks like the biggest of the stores and easily the most impressive.
“Chanel it is.” He notices my reticence and gives me an encouraging look. “Remember, you don’t have to be nervous. Not about price tags. This is an investment; you need to look right or this isn’t going to work. We can spend a lot here. Okay?” He pulls his American Express platinum card out of his leather wallet. “Let’s go crazy.”
I can’t help but smile. Somewhere deep inside me a teenage girl is screaming.
Now, I’m sure you’ve seen the film; you know how this goes. My husband Richard Gere’s me through the gauntlet of Heathrow Terminal 5’s designer boutiques toward the glittering lights of Chanel. I like to flatter myself that I’ve always looked fairly stylish in my mid-price-range clothing. I’m usually happy to pay up to five hundred pounds for a special occasion. An event dress, a leather jacket, Jimmy Choos, but I would balk at paying, say, two thousand pounds for an embellished bustier. I know I spend more than I probably should, but even I don’t tend to shop in stores that bring champagne on a tray into your carpeted dressing room. But today I will. And that’s okay.
When we enter the shop it’s empty save for the two shop assistants, one polishing the glass of the jewelry counter, the other dusting the handbags on the higher display shelves. Both look up as we enter. And both run their eyes up and down Mark and me, quickly assessing, calculating. I thought I’d left the house looking pretty good this morning, but as we walk toward them I suddenly feel distinctly pedestrian. I feel my usual confidence ebb away. The shop assistants’ eyes slide off of me and onto Mark. All attention and focus is directed toward Mark: gorgeous Mark in his tasteful cashmere sweater, jeans, and jacket. His Rolex twinkling in the shop lights. We have been weighed and it has been astutely judged that my gentleman friend is the alpha here; my gentleman friend is the one with the money.
Mark bends and whispers in my ear.
“Go have a wander. I’ll deal with this.” He kisses my cheek and continues on to the now smiling assistants.
I drift over toward the racks and inspect a pink silk blouse, its tag clearly visible at ￡2,470. Mark’s platinum card is going to get a hammering today.
On the opposite wall, I catch sight of a huge plasma screen playing Chanel’s fall/winter catwalk show. Battalions of reedy girls clad in tweed, leather, and lace, a marching army of impeccable taste. I glance over at Mark; he’s leaning over the counter now, talking to the assistants, who blush and giggle. Oh, Mark. They all look over at me, and beam. He’s told them we’re newlyweds, I can tell from their expressions. I beam back and give a little wave and the impeccably dressed delegation surges to meet me.
The blond assistant, the higher ranking of the two, speaks first. “Good morning, madam. Congratulations, by the way!” She looks back to Mark, smiling.
The redheaded assistant takes the cue and bobs her head in agreement as the blonde continues.
“So, we’ve spoken to your husband and we understand you are looking for three separate daywear options today. Is that right?” She sounds thrilled.
My eyes flick to Mark in surprise. Three outfits. He grins and shrugs. Okay, I see what we’re doing; we’re having fun. That’s what we’re doing. There’s no messing around here; we really are going for this. I take a breath.
“Yes. Yes, three daywear options would be fantastic,” I reply as if it’s the sort of thing I usually say.
“Lovely, well, let me get the fall/winter collection book and you can take a look. We got the new collection in over the weekend, so we should have pretty much everything. Oh, what size do you take? We can measure you but just as a guide?”
“French 34,” I say. Because I may not own any Chanel but I damn well know my French sizing.
The catalog is found and pored over. Sparkling water is supplied.
I need something appropriate to wear, something someone with a million dollars in cash, in a bag, might wear. I need to look polished, put together. Like someone you wouldn’t question, someone you wouldn’t mess with.