Despite Winnie’s urging, I didn’t call her after that humiliating dinner. Instead, I wallowed in my misery, envisioning ever more dire scenarios. My imagination spun out of control. Far worse, I realized, than Oli embarking on an affair with some fresh-faced nurse was for him to figure out he didn’t miss me at all, that he was perfectly content on his own.
I tried to put on a brave face. I threw myself into Henri’s preschool applications, which were due that week. Over and over I explained why this preschool was a good choice for my child (and you know as well as I that because it’s walking distance from our house wasn’t going to cut it). I expounded upon my parenting philosophies, detailed hopes and dreams for my kid’s early childhood education, unspooled a long list of his outstanding traits. Classical piano music aficionado. Gentle and enthusiastic petter of neighborhood dogs.
Nights I squeezed into Henri’s new big-boy bed because it was the only way to get him to stop crying for his papa—and because, let’s face it, it made me feel better, too. Countless times I composed the same message to Carla and Joanne but never went through with sending it. Even typing the words I think Oli’s leaving me felt perilous, as though I could somehow write it into reality. In short, I was a total and absolute mess.
It was at this, my most vulnerable moment, that Winnie sensed a business opportunity. Until this point, her primary objective had been to secure Oli’s aid for her ailing friend, Boss Mak. (Yes, everyone calls him that.) Now, however, sensing that she could take advantage of my fragile state (and my knowledge of tax law), she expanded her ambitions to recruit me into the fold.
That gray January morning, she called to see how I was holding up.
No, really, how are you? she asked, her voice thick with meaning.
The frayed cord within me snapped. Tears waterfalled from my eyes.
Ava? she said softly. Are you there?
I fought to steady my voice. Yes. A single syllable pinched so tightly, I gave up any hope of fooling her.
Are you okay?
No.
For a while she simply listened as I gulped air, trying to pull myself together.
Then she declared, He’s going to hate living on his own so much, he won’t last a month.
For some reason this made me laugh. I said, He signed a six-month lease.
Whatever. I still don’t think he’ll last more than a couple of weeks. Men are so helpless on their own.
He’s wasting money we don’t have.
The pause that followed told me this surprised her—transplant surgery is one of the highest-paid medical specialties—but we were still paying off grad school loans, the mortgage, Maria.
I added, But what can I say? I don’t make a penny.
This, I believe, is when Winnie saw her opening. She announced she was taking me to lunch. Naturally, I said I didn’t feel up to it, but she insisted nonetheless.
The Rotunda, the restaurant on the top floor of Neiman Marcus, was packed with tourists in designer sneakers, barricaded into their chairs by shopping bags, and ladies of leisure, checking their lipstick in tiny, gilded compacts. Winnie had yet to arrive. I was seated at a small round table next to a white woman who must have been in her eighties. The platinum bob, thick makeup, and nubby Chanel tweed couldn’t mask her wizened form. She sat alone before a plate of crudité and a martini, and all the strapping, bronzed waiters addressed her by name. From the way she flirted with them, I could tell she’d been a beauty once. I watched mesmerized as she cut a small square of celery, dipped it into a ramekin of ranch dressing, and chewed as though it were filet mignon.
Winnie arrived with her peacock-blue Birkin in one hand and a large silver shopping bag in the other—something she had to return, she said.
We nibbled oven-warm popovers while waiting for our chopped salads.
Winnie took a sip of ice water and said, A little independence in a marriage isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
I fiddled with the heavy silverware. It is when the independence only applies to one of you.
She lowered her voice. Do you have your own bank account?
My fingers jerked involuntarily, clanging my knife against my bread plate. What? We’re nowhere near that point.
Right, she said quickly. Of course not.
Our salads arrived, and I changed the subject. What are you returning?
Oh, this. She glanced down at her shopping bag. A Celine purse I really don’t need.
I gave a low whistle and admitted that I’d never understood the appeal of such expensive handbags.
They’re a waste of money, she cheerfully agreed. Ever since the global conglomerates bought up the heritage designer brands, prices rise and quality plummets.
So why do people keep paying?
The same reason your parents shelled out for Stanford when you could have gone to a state school.
I begged to differ. My undergraduate education had led me to a top law school and then to a top firm.
She kindly refrained from pointing out how long it had been since I’d practiced law. She said, The point is they’re status symbols. A Harvard degree is not so different from a designer handbag. They both signal that you’re part of the club, they open doors.
So what you’re saying is we’re all getting fleeced.
She shrugged. Some people really like clubs. She held up the shopping bag. But me? I’m returning this and taking a stand.
I shaped my hands into a bullhorn and aimed it around the airy dining room, saying, Attention, attention, shoppers of Neiman Marcus, you’ve all been duped, as Winnie teasingly rolled her eyes.
When the check came, she snatched it up.
Too loudly I said, Don’t be ridiculous. I can afford a damn salad.
The old woman at the neighboring table peered at us over the rim of her martini glass.
Winnie asked gamely, Are you enjoying your lunch?
Oh, yes, the woman said. I’ve come here every Tuesday for the last fifteen years. She tried to smile but her chemically paralyzed facial muscles could only form a grimace. To Winnie she said, I’ve seen you here before. You must be a regular, too.
No, Winnie said, I don’t live in San Francisco.
Oh, then I’ve mixed you up with someone else. There are so many Orientals around here, and they all spend, spend, spend. She looked pointedly at Winnie’s Birkin.
I shrank into the banquette, horrified, but Winnie remained composed. She downed the last of her espresso and said, There are over a billion of us. We are everywhere. Have a nice day.
Tracing our way out of the restaurant, I shook my head at Winnie, still dumbstruck.
She said, Old people are racist. My parents say stuff like that all the time and they’re much younger than her.
Her magnanimity made me seethe. Suddenly it was of paramount importance that Winnie take my side.
But that word she used—there’s no excuse, I said. We’re people, not rugs. And what gives her the right to judge how you spend your money? She knows nothing about you.
Winnie laughed. You Asian Americans are so sensitive. Us Chinese, we know the world looks down on us, but we don’t care! It takes only a couple generations for nouveau riche to become old riche, am I right?
She stepped off the escalator and led the way to the handbag department, stopping at the cash wrap. She set her shopping bag on the glass countertop, and a petite white saleswoman with a pageboy haircut and crimson lips hurried over. Mrs. Lewis, you’re back in town.
Clearly, she’d mistaken Winnie for some other rich Oriental, but instead of correcting her, Winnie said, Deidre, hi, I hoped you’d be in today. She pulled out a square mass shrouded in a taupe dust bag emblazoned with the word CELINE. She went on, My mother-in-law says the color is too bright. She doesn’t dare carry it.
I shot Winnie a quizzical look. She’d been divorced for years and never mentioned her ex-husband, much less her ex-mother-in-law. Did they really keep in touch? How close would they have to be to warrant such an extravagant gift? Winnie’s placid expression revealed nothing.
Inside the dust bag was a boxy minimalist tote—the Luggage Tote, I’d later learn—in royal blue, the pigment so brilliant and saturated, it was like gazing at the sole Technicolor object in an otherwise black-and-white world. Winnie slid a receipt across the counter, and I squinted at the numbers. Three thousand one hundred and forty-six dollars.
Oh, that’s a shame, the saleswoman said. But we knew it was a risk.
I tried to convince her, Winnie said, turning her palms skyward. Let’s go ahead and exchange it for black.
Oh dear, said Deidre. Didn’t I mention this? We’re out of black. The entire company is sold out.
Oh no, said Winnie.
I’m so sorry.
It’s my fault.
I examined my friend’s face, trying to parse the conversation’s many twists and turns.
Well, said Winnie, I guess I’ll have to return this.
Of course, my dear. Deidre typed rapidly into the cash register and scanned the barcode on the tag. It all goes back onto your Amex.
Thank you, Winnie said, patting the saleswoman’s sun-spotted hand.
Come back and see us soon.
Winnie turned and headed for the side exit. I followed close behind.
Lewis? I asked.
She answered, For a time.
And you buy your ex-mother-in-law superexpensive gifts?
It’s better to have a story.
Better for what? What are you talking about?
Out on the sidewalk, Winnie stopped and backed up against a wall, tugging me along with her. When she next spoke, her voice was so quiet, the traffic nearly drowned her out. I leaned in until my hair brushed her lips.
Remember how I told you I’m in handbag manufacturing?
I nodded.
I work with a particular kind of handbag. Replica designer bags.
What does that mean? Knockoffs?
She motioned for me to hush and held up her Birkin. How much do you think this cost?
A pair of Asian teenage girls slowed and stared unabashedly at the bag. Winnie took my arm and pulled me around the corner into a small, dingy coffee shop.
How much? she asked again. She sat down at one of the greasy-looking tables, as far away as possible from the only other customer, an elderly man in a fedora, reading the paper.
I threw out a wildly improbable number. I don’t know, ten grand?
Sure, she said. If I bought this at the Hermès store down the block, it would have been close to twelve, including tax. That is, if I could somehow convince them to sell me one—they claim they’re never in stock.
Where’d you get it then?
She gave me a smile that hid her teeth, inviting me to run my fingers over the supple grained leather, the gleaming gold hardware inscribed with the words Hermès-Paris, the Made in France stamp, the tiny H-imprinted lock. She let me take in every detail before answering.
This is from Guangzhou, the replica designer bag capital of the world.
It looks very nice, I said, though back then I had no idea I was looking at the crème de la crème of replicas, what’s known as a one-to-one bag. Better than super A and just-plain A. (Even the replica handbag industry suffers from grade inflation.)
I was losing patience. What does this have to do with Neiman Marcus?
There again was that enigmatic smile. What do you think?
I think you import fake bags from China and sell them for a profit.
She grunted in disgust. Every Tom, Dick, and Henry does that. Where’s the creativity? Where’s the innovation?
I didn’t bother correcting her. So tell me your brilliant business model.
Her eyes flashed like my son’s did when he was about to dump his cereal bowl on the floor. What did I do in there? She pointed her thumb in the general direction of the department store. Didn’t you watch the entire thing?
And then, it hit me. That gorgeous royal-blue bag was a fake. She’d returned a knockoff to the most exclusive department store in the world and pocketed the three thousand–plus dollars.
What did you do with the real one?
Sold it on eBay last week.
How did I react? I was furious. Much more so than I would have guessed. My whole body burned. My pores oozed sweat. I couldn’t stand to look at Winnie’s smooth white face. All at once, I understood how Joanne must have felt back in freshman year, punching the wall and cursing the injustice of it all.
I sputtered something like, But that’s cheating!
Winnie was unperturbed. What about selling a bag for ten times what it costs to make. Is that not cheating?
Not at all. No one’s holding a gun to your head forcing you to buy it.
What about manufacturing an entire bag in China, except for the handle, and then embossing the handle with a prominent Made in Italy?
What do you mean? That’s neither here nor there.
What about forcing workers to go hours without bathroom breaks? Squeezing them for every cent and then turning around and selling their handiwork for thousands?
What are you trying to say? Many people do terrible things, that still doesn’t make what you’re doing okay.
She said, I’m merely suggesting that all of us fixate on certain kinds of cheating, while willfully ignoring other kinds.
A young man in a soiled apron sidled up and said, I’m sorry, tables are only for customers.
I’ll take a double espresso, said Winnie, at the same time as I said, Don’t worry, I’m leaving.
Confused, he backed away.
Ava, don’t go, Winnie said. Those luxury brands, they’re the villains. We’re on the same side here. She pinned down my hand like she had the saleswoman’s, as though she’d read in some manual that a firm touch at the right moment could weaken a person’s resolve.
You’re disgusting, I said before charging out the door.
Why did her admission infuriate me so? Why had I bothered trying to reason with her? We’d only just reconnected, and I owed her nothing. And yet, as I sped down the sidewalk, the conversation continued in my head, our respective retorts piling up like a tower of Jenga blocks. And what disturbed me more was her utter lack of shame, her certainty that I would be receptive to her message.
In hindsight I see it was all part of her strategy: in hiding nothing, she forced me to consider the possibility that she had nothing to hide.
I met my Lyft at the end of the block. Safely ensconced in the back seat, I dropped my head and massaged my aching temples.
The driver called out, Temperature okay back there? A gold ring pierced her dainty snub nose.
Yup.
She turned up the volume on the stereo and a decade-old pop ballad filled the car. She sang along in a sweet, breathy voice. I keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding love. She eyed me in the rearview mirror. I love this song.
I’d always thought the lyrics were “keep breathing, keep, keep breathing,” and I told her so.
I keep breathing love? What does that even mean?
I gazed out the window. An ancient stooped Chinese woman inched a shopping cart of flattened cardboard boxes into the crosswalk.
Nothing, I said. It makes absolutely no sense.