This is how, on a fine, cloudless afternoon, I found myself driving over thirty miles to the Stanford Shopping Center, with Winnie riding shotgun and a large Chanel shopping bag in the back seat.
Believe me when I say I tried multiple times to back out. In fact, the whole plan was so repulsive, I’d been sick to my stomach for the past forty-eight hours, prompting Maria to ask if I was pregnant, or had the flu. But each time I told Winnie I couldn’t go through with the return, she harnessed her masterful skills of persuasion to prove me wrong.
Ava, she said, what makes a fake bag fake if it’s indistinguishable from the real thing? What gives the real bag its inherent value?
I had to admit she had a point: the real and knockoff Gabrielles were exact duplicates, from the brushed antique-gold logos to the gilded authenticity cards in their crisp letterpress envelopes. Before Winnie had posted the real one online for five percent below list price (and it had been snapped up within the hour), I’d stuck my nose into each bag and inhaled its identical musky scent—a reminder that this tanned, dyed skin had once been part of a living, breathing whole.
When I continued to insist that it wasn’t in my nature to deceive, she said, Just try it this once. Oli will never know. No one will. Come on, Ava, admit it, isn’t it fun to bend the rules a little?
Here’s the thing, Detective. All through my teenage years, I’d never once snuck out of the house, or missed curfew, or owned a fake ID. Why? Fear, I guess. Guilt. In those days, closing my eyes and picturing my mom’s dismay was enough to make me abandon whatever minor act of rebellion had crossed my mind. I told myself I’d have fun once I went to college, or once I lived on my own, or once I was financially independent and answered to no one. But eventually resignation set in, and habit, too. And so here I was, thirty-seven years old and feeling cheated out of the chance to collect the wild, silly stories one told about one’s youth.
You know, my mom died four months before she planned to retire. She’d already booked her and my dad’s first postretirement vacation: two weeks in Tuscany, hiking, cooking, sipping wine under the sun. Again, I don’t want to make excuses, but I think it’s fair to note that when Winnie reentered my life, I was racked with regret—for all the experiences I’d postponed and then lost, for all the moments my mom would never have, and that she and I would never share. Surely it’s clear that any master manipulator would have nailed me for an easy mark.
As I cruised past the last San Francisco exit on 280, fingers clenching the steering wheel, I made a final attempt.
Please, Winnie, don’t make me go through with this. I didn’t have to glance at her to know her patience was wearing thin.
But she, too, had one final card. I’d mentioned that I’d gotten Henri an appointment with the coveted speech therapist, and now she said, casually, How much per session?
Three fifty.
And you can’t tell Oli?
Never.
And let’s say she wants to see Henri once a week for six months, maybe a year. How do you plan to pay for it?
I stared straight ahead. She placed a warm palm on the back of my neck.
Stop worrying, she said. It’ll be over in five minutes.
I veered off the freeway while she repeated bits of the same pep talk she’d first given when we left the city.
Not too many excuses, that’s what sounds fishy. Be confident. Polite. Firm.
In the mall parking lot, I pulled into a spot, and a shiny white Tesla glided in next to me. A group of Chinese girls—college students from Stanford, or possibly, Santa Clara—tumbled out of the car like lithe, nimble clowns.
Winnie observed that these days there were so many Mainland Chinese in American universities, not like during our time, when there were only a few.
I don’t remember you hanging out with other Mainlanders, I said.
Back then you had to be very connected and powerful to send your child abroad. Those kids wouldn’t have been friends with me. Besides, why would I come all this way to spend time with other Chinese?
She told me how thrilled she was to find out I was her roommate—a real American!
I felt suddenly moved that she’d thought of me that way. I recalled how annoyed I used to get by her ceaseless questions about the most seemingly random topics: Would your parents be mad if you dated a white? What about a Black? Does your mom make Chinese or American food? Did your parents beat you when you were small? Not beat—hit, yes, spank.
Winnie opened the passenger door, and when she saw me waver, she sat back and said, Think of it this way. These salespeople spend their time handling luxuries they can’t afford themselves, pandering to the superrich and superentitled.
So?
So it doesn’t take much to get someone like that on your side, to make them want to help you.
I released my seat belt.
Remember, don’t talk so much.
I stepped out of the car. I’d tried to emulate Winnie by donning a loose silk shirt tucked into black cigarette pants.
She scanned me from head to toe, zeroing in on my black leather shoulder bag—a French contemporary brand, Sandro or maybe A.P.C.—that had been a gift from Oli’s mom.
She hooked a finger at me. Give me that. You carry mine.
I dutifully handed over my bag. The one she gave me in exchange, an Hermès Evelyne, was, quite frankly, nothing special, even somewhat unattractive: a flat gray rectangle of soft pebbled leather, with a utilitarian cross-body strap and a large H perforated into the side that was meant to be hidden, but which most people wore facing outward.
My doubts must have registered on my face because Winnie assured me that the Evelyne was a key part of the costume.
It shows you’re rich but not flashy.
I slung the bag over my shoulder, H side out, and followed behind her.
She stopped dead. Ava, she said, rolling her palms skyward, the Gabrielle.
I scurried back to the car for the shopping bag, and we set off once again.
In the years since we’d been students, a thorough renovation had transformed the already swanky Stanford Shopping Center into an oasis of excessive luxury. Graceful walkways lined by floral planters in full bloom marked the path to each jeweled, perfumed boutique. Coiffed patrons lounged on gilded chairs scattered about the manicured courtyards. The entire sprawling burnished compound formed a facsimile of a picturesque square in a second-tier European city, sans the hordes of sweating tourists, the pollution, the charm. This overwhelming abundance of artificial beauty contributed, once again, to the feeling that I’d entered a fantasy realm, where absolutely nothing, including the crime I was about to commit, was real.
When the Chanel boutique came into view, Winnie stationed herself at a wrought-iron table paces from the entrance.
What are you waiting for? she asked.
I wiped my damp palms on the seat of my pants and made for the store.
A security guard in a black suit held open the heavy glass door with a murmured, Good afternoon, madam.
A wave of deliciously cold air, infused with the heady, expensive scent of roses, swept me inside. The boutique was all shiny surfaces, golden light. A pair of saleswomen in pencil skirts and crisp white shirts stood like sentries behind glass counters on opposite sides of the room. One was likely Mainland Chinese, to cater to all the Mandarin-speaking big spenders; the other was white and middle-aged. Before the conscious part of my brain had made a decision, my body instinctively veered toward the white woman.
Her eyes glinted behind oversized tortoiseshell glasses. How can I help you today?
Sweat sprang from my armpits. I clamped my elbows to my sides to hide the burgeoning stains and said, Just a return. I set my shopping bag on the counter.
Let’s have a look, shall we?
Why hadn’t Winnie warned me against wearing silk? Moving only my forearms, I gingerly pulled out the dust bag containing the replica Gabrielle.
In the mirror I watched the Chinese woman stifle a yawn and stroll out of hearing distance, and the muscles deep within my abdomen unclenched.
Well, this is a surprise, the associate said.