We start the fitting with a signature bouclé wool pencil skirt and the pink silk blouse. But Mark and I quickly come to the conclusion that it might be a tad too formal for our requirements. After all, I don’t want to look like I work at the bank.
Next, we try a silk sundress in caramel from the spring/summer collection. It’ll still be just about warm enough for it in Geneva, and paired with a jacket, it would work perfectly. It hangs from me in a way no item of clothing ever has, loosely draping from gossamer-thin spaghetti straps, showing just the right amount of South Pacific tan across my décolletage, and then plunging airily down between my breasts. The assistant pairs it with thick golden hoop earrings and cream espadrilles. When I look in the mirror I’m transformed, into someone else, another version of myself. A Greek heiress with a sugar daddy, Santorini-ready.
One outfit down. Two to go. The redhead arrives with champagne in tall crisp flutes. I think of my test yesterday and sip lightly.
The second outfit we decide on is a pairing of skintight black leather trousers and a thin black cashmere roll-neck, with a string of Chanel jewelry draped over me and finished with black ankle boots and a black cape coat. Minimal, sexy.
The final outfit we all decide on is a 1960-inspired bouclé top with a “space-suit neckline” in black and gray wool with hidden sparkles in the Chanel fabric. Underneath, tailored black culottes, ankle boots, and over it all a classic Chanel winter coat in the same fabric as the top. One hundred percent Emirates princess. Polished to perfection.
I finish off my sparkling water while Mark pays—I can’t even imagine what the damage is—and we say our goodbyes, leaving two extremely happy sales assistants in our wake.
We head to Bottega Veneta next. We need a new bag for the money; I can’t just take Mark’s old weekend bag into the bank with me. I need something less conspicuous, more appropriate, something I might carry. We find the perfect size and shape, a Bottega Veneta oyster gray, woven-leather duffel bag. We can load it up with money, and I can change, once we’re safely in our hotel room in Geneva. And with that we’re done, just as our boarding call comes through.
I’m now sitting on the edge of a bed in the Four Seasons Hotel des Bergues in Geneva. The voucher Leila issued in Bora Bora came in handy really quickly. My heart is hammering.
Mark is on the phone to Tanguy from UCB Banque Privée Suisse again.
I’m dressed for the appointment now. There’s a chill in the air here, so I decided on the second option, skintight leather trousers and soft cashmere. Smart, sophisticated, sexy, a woman who knows her own mind. I do look like the kind of person who would be opening this sort of account; beside me sits the Bottega Veneta duffel bag, a bag befitting the fortune inside it. I look across at myself in the floor-length mirror as Mark’s voice drifts in from the suite’s sitting room. The woman in the mirror is wealthy, she’s confident. I certainly look the part even if I don’t feel it.
Mark finishes the call and comes in to join me.
I’ll be the one doing the heavy lifting today. I’m the one who has to walk into the bank alone and hand over one million dollars in a Bottega Veneta duffel bag. I feel my heart palpitate, deep inside my chest, at the very idea of it.
“Don’t think of it like that,” Mark tells me. “Don’t think of it as you handing over a hugely suspicious bag in the middle of a bank. Because they won’t see it that way. Seriously, Erin. If you’d seen half the stuff I’d seen in banking…Listen, I went out with some oil guys in Mayfair once and they carried a hundred thousand pounds in cash around in a gym bag. One hundred thousand pounds, for a night out. I know it seems unreal to us, and money in a duffel bag feels very illegal, but there’s no law against carrying money around in bags. Is there? And you can’t carry that much in a handbag, so of course it’s a duffel bag. Right?”
I just stare at him. I might need to vomit again. I did earlier.
It’s just nerves. The vomiting. Delicate flower that I am. It’s only the deep shifting tidal cramps in my womb that are the first actual signs of the pregnancy. Yawning aches in the core of me. I Googled them this morning. Hormones. I worked out that from the first day of my last period I’m six weeks pregnant. Apparently the cramps are perfectly normal at this stage. I suppose my body is preparing to make a whole human being. I’m trying not to think about it too much. Mark doesn’t know yet. And it hardly seems the time, does it?
The nausea washes over me. Waves of sickness followed by blissful calm.
“What if they ask me where I got it?” I ask.
“They won’t, Erin. They just won’t. If it’s illegal, they definitely won’t want to know, will they? Think about it. The law is: if you’re aware the money is not legal, then you have to alert the authorities. If they asked every suspicious person who opened a Swiss bank account where they got their money from, Switzerland’s economy would be fucked. Nobody opens a Swiss bank account with their birthday money, Erin, come on!” He’s right, of course.
“I suppose they might just assume I’m an escort or something. Hence the cash…” I say.
“More likely they’ll think you’re siphoning off your husband’s money before a divorce. I’m sure they get that a lot. At least that’s what I’d think if I saw you.” He smiles. Wow. It’s at moments like that you wonder, Who did I marry? Judging by his face, I think he thinks he’s just complimented me.
Another ripple of nausea. I am silent until it passes.
“And he’s definitely expecting me?” I rise slowly from the bed, careful not to make any sudden movements.
“Yeah, he doesn’t know we’re married; I told him you’re a new client. He knows it’s a large cash deposit. That it’s delicate, all that.” He grabs an apple from the complimentary fruit basket and takes a bite.
I know Mark can’t go himself, as he has a direct connection to the bank, but I can’t help noticing that he really isn’t leaving any trails back to himself. It’s my face the bank will see, the memory of me that will be recalled. But then, the beauty of a Swiss account is that once the account is opened, that information will be protected. And my passport name is still Locke. I haven’t changed it to Roberts yet. As far as Mark’s old work links are concerned, the client he mentioned has no personal connection to him. Erin Locke will open an account today but my name will not be attached to the account at all. The account will bear only a number. Untraceable back to me. Untraceable back to either of us.
I stand and study myself one last time in the mirror. I’ve done a good job with the hair and makeup. I look right. Now that I think of it, I look like the type of person I had expected to see in the first-class lounge that morning two weeks ago. The kind of person that should have been in that lounge. If the world was a different place. If things always looked the way you imagined. But I guess, like in filmmaking, some things look more real when they’re not.
For a second I see my mother in my reflection, my beautiful young mother, but it’s only a flash, a ripple on the water, and she’s gone, stowed safely away again.
The nausea’s dissipating now. I’ll be just fine.
“Off I go then,” I say.
He nods, his energy high, and he hands me the bag.
“The car should be downstairs,” he says as I take it from him.
And with that I’m on my own.
* * *
—
In the lift I stand alone, reflected ad infinitum in the mirrored box, dampened silence around me. The doors slide shut soundlessly and the hallway recedes.
What if I never see its lurid red swirling pattern again? What if I’m arrested at the bank as soon as I click across the marble lobby? What would happen to the little blue cross inside me?
Or worse, what if the person who sent that text is there, waiting for me? I remember the three pulsing gray dots.