Page 26 of An American in London

I’m super aware I’m wearing a veritable rock on my left ring finger as we step out onto the street. I glance around us to see if there’s anyone about to attack me for the yellow diamond I’m pretending is mine. It’s noticeably heavier than the engagement ring I had from Jed, and it feels strange having something on that finger again.

“Next, I was thinking Ralph Lauren. It’s classic enough to be acceptable, but American enough to be authentic.”

“What are you talking about?” I slide my ring around so it’s facing in; all people can see is the band of gold.

“You’re going to need a suitable wardrobe, unless you came to London with a case of clothes appropriate for shooting and cocktails.” We cross the street toward the large Ralph Lauren store adorned with stars and stripes, navy awnings, polished brass, and dark wood.

“It depends on what we’re shooting. I’m pretty sure I can point and shoot a Glock 19 in jeans and a sweater.” I’ve watched enough ofThe Crownto know he’s not suggesting we shoot handguns, but does handling a rifle really require more shopping? When I signed up to pretend to be Ben’s fiancée, I hadn’t factored in ring shopping and a wardrobe refresh.

Ben doesn’t say a word, just guides me into the store with a hand at my lower back.

An assistant greets us immediately. “Good morning, can I help you with anything?”

“We need women’s wear. Two evening outfits, two traveling outfits,” Ben says like he’s shopping for a quart of milk and some trash bags. “Something for shooting, and two outfits for a smart-casual weekend in the country. We need shoes and coats—everything.”

I try to give Ben a look that says,Have you lost your mind? She’s going to think you hired me to dress me up, but he isn’t focusing on me at all. So here I am, a human Barbie, ready to be outfitted.

“Certainly. I can help you with all that.” The assistant glances at me, then back at Ben as she leads us farther into the store, like she’s trying to figure out whether she should ask my opinion about anything. After all, I’m the one presumably having to actually wear what she and Ben are going to pick out.

I pull my face into a smile. I’m getting thirty thousand dollars for this. I shouldn’t care what she thinks. As for Ben, well, I need to accept that a rich, good-looking man spending a small fortune on clothes for me is going to want his opinion taken into consideration. It’s not exactly a hardship, being the center of this man’s attention.

“Jeans and cashmere always make a great traveling outfit,” the assistant says, stopping at a rack of camel-color sweaters.

Ben turns to me. “You like these?”

I raise my eyebrows to say,Does it matter?“Sure,” I answer instead. Who says no to cashmere? Even if it’s only temporary ownership.

“A classic mac is a good traveling coat for this time of year—protection from the odd spots of rain. And we’ll pick up a jacket for hunting.” She calls over another assistant, and they exchange a few words in hushed voices.

Suddenly another assistant appears. Apparently the assistants have assistants here. They clearly know Ben is about to spend some money. For a moment, I want to ask whether the money for the clothes is going to be taken out of my thirty thousand, but it doesn’t seem like the right time to bring it up.

We wander from display to display, the assistant in charge asking our opinions about this and that. Ben doesn’t say no to anything, andneither do I. There’s absolutely nothing to complain about in this store. Maybe that’s part of the reason he chose it.

“Let’s go to the fitting room. We can start trying things on, and I can send out for other pieces as we need them.”

The first assistant ushers us into a large room with a separate changing area. After Ben places a drink order—green tea for me and black coffee for him—I head behind the changing curtain while the first assistant goes off to find shoes.

“This feels weird,” I say. “Are you going to rate me on a scale of one to ten?”

“I’d rather not, but if you insist.” Ben’s tone is always the same, so I can’t tell whether he’s joking.

“Of course I don’t want you to grade me. But it feels weird to be dressing up for your approval like this.” Or maybe it feels weird that it doesn’t feel weirder? I pull off my jeans and try to figure out what I should try on first.

“If it makes you feel any better, we’re not slap-bang in the center of my comfort zone right now either. I’ve never bought a woman clothes before. And it wasn’t on my grand plan for the things I wanted to achieve in the next five years. But needs must. This weekend has to be perfect.”

“You have a five-year grand plan?” I ask, pulling one of the cocktail dresses from the rack. I’ve never worn pink before, and I’m sure it won’t suit me.

“No ... Well, yes, in that my business has a five-year plan, and I am my business.”

“Does it include doing things with women?” I scrunch up my face in embarrassment. That didn’t come out exactly right.

He doesn’t respond right away, probably wondering whether he should answer at all. “What kind of things?”

“I don’t know. Do you put girlfriends in your plan? Fake fiancées? Have you penciled in a personal life?” I manage to reach the low zip at the back of the dress and adjust the straps before turning to the mirror.

The pink is pretty, and I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would. I wouldn’t wear it inblack is the only acceptable colorNew York, but I’m not in New York now. My old life there has disintegrated. Maybe the new me likes pink. I twirl, loving the way the pleated skirt lifts. I’m a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Julie Andrews—an unexpected but delightful combination I didn’t know I needed.

“I told you, it’s abusinessplan.”

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