Page 29 of An American in London

“I didn’t realize it was obligatory.”

“It’s not, but you’re a good-looking, rich, powerful guy. You must have women lined up round the block wanting to have dinner with you.”

I’d never dated in New York. My girlfriends are always complaining about how rough it is. I suppose I’ll find out for myself when I get back home. Fake-dating Ben might sharpen my skills—a dating test case as well as a fake fiancé. Spending time with him might help me figure out what kind of guy I’m looking for. Ben’s directness burns sometimes, but at least I know where I stand with him. It’s a good quality in a partner, and one I might want to put toward the top of my Qualities to Look For list when the time comes. I’m just not used to it.

“I’d have to look it up, but I’m pretty sure dating has to be consensual,” he says. “I’m not interested in dinner.”

He just wants sex.

Like I said—Ben is direct.

The head assistant comes back, rolling a rack full of clothes, all of which appear to be in my size, and her assistant follows, holding a tower of shoeboxes tucked under her chin. “That looks gorgeous, and I have just the shoe,” she says. She pulls out a simple black strappy sandal and fastens it for me.

“You’ve never asked me my size, and yet everything fits perfectly.”

She grins up at me from the floor. “That’s my job.”

“You’re really good at it.”

“Thank you. That is completely stunning.” She sweeps her arm in front of me, encouraging me out of the fitting room to show Ben.

He looks up from his phone and his expression is all business, the softness I saw when I tried on the black dress nowhere to be found. “We’ll take it.”

Chapter Eleven

During one afternoon on Bond Street, Ben has spent more on my wardrobe than I have in my entire life. I bought myself nice things back in New York, but I mixed them with cheaper stuff.

“Are we done now?” I ask as we exit Ralph Lauren, my feet aching and my hair looking like I’ve been wrestling alligators for the last couple of hours.

“Most women wouldn’t complain about shopping for a new wardrobe.”

“First, that’s sexist. Second, I’m notmostwomen.”

“True on both counts. Now back to my office.”

“On a Sunday?” He doesn’t respond. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Don’t do that,” Ben replies. “Don’t ask permission to ask a question. It’s a waste of time. Does anyone ever say no when someone asks them if they can ask a question?”

“Jeez, you’re a stickler.”

“I’m efficient.”

I bend my arms and move them jerkily around like I’m pretending to be a robot. “Yes, sir,” I say in my best robot voice. I drop my arms and switch back into my normal tone. “What happens to the clothes when this weekend is over?” I ask.

When Ben finished choosing all the pieces for my weekend wardrobe, he simply handed over his business card, asked that everything be de-labeled and laundered, then delivered to my hotel. He hadn’thanded over a credit card or anything. I didn’t even know stores would do something like that. I’ve certainly never seen anything like it.

Ben glances down at his phone and then nods as his Range Rover pulls up across the street. “Is this a trick question?”

There is definitely more of a language divide than I expected there to be between me and the rest of London. Maybe it’s cultural? “No, I just wonder whether they’re on loan or I need to pay for them or ...”

“I’ll pay for them. After, they’ll be yours to do with what you wish. If you don’t like them, I suggest you donate them.”

“I love them,” I blurt. “I was just wondering. It all feels a little ...Pretty Woman.”

“Except you’re not a prostitute and this is reality.”

“True on both counts,” I say, echoing him. We reach the car, he holds the door open, and I climb inside.Isthis reality, though?

---