Winnie gave me a couple weeks to celebrate Henri’s preschool acceptance, and then she texted to inform me she was back in town. Meet me at Bloomingdale’s, Westfield Mall, 2pm. She provided no additional details.
You have the security footage, Detective; you saw how quickly she put me back to work, sending me on assignments at least once a week. Her goal was to make these store returns habitual, to help me relax. She told me I needed to stop worrying, that the more I could sink into the role, the less likely I was to actually get caught.
And I must admit, the lawyer in me appreciated the pure elegance of her scheme. Not even the most discerning shopper would doubt the authenticity of a bag purchased from a reputable retailer. The power of suggestion was too seductive, the confirmation bias effect too potent.
Soon, Winnie declared me ready to go off on my own. As your videos show, each week I would test out a different persona depending on the store. Here I am in Barneys (RIP), as the impatient, high-powered career woman on her lunch break; that’s me, too, at Saks, the indecisive middle manager who only recently started buying luxury; at Gucci, the flighty trophy wife; at Louis Vuitton, the spoiled heiress; and here at Nordstrom, my favorite of them all, I am the down-to-earth stay-at-home mom, which is to say, more or less myself.
Why did I love Nordstrom? Let me count the ways. They had the most forgiving return policy on the planet. Their sales staff were friendly and efficient, and, most importantly, refrained from asking questions. Their downtown location was busy enough that I never felt like I was being watched, which, in turn, let me do the watching.
Lurking around the cash wrap, I’d seen customers return blatantly used clothing, shoes, even underwear, with no tags, no receipts, nothing except their dubious claims. These people made me feel comparatively virtuous. After all, the store would have no difficulty selling my replica Longchamp Le Pliage (size L, in lemon yellow). Nordstrom wasn’t losing a cent off me.
One time, I watched a middle-aged white woman pull a beat-up pair of hiking boots out of a paper grocery bag. The shoes were so battered she probably saw no point in fudging the truth and readily offered that they’d been purchased a year earlier. Apparently, she’d recently gained twenty pounds (due to new medication), which had caused her feet to spread, and now the blasted things gave her blisters.
The sales associate’s smile never dimmed as he gingerly turned over one boot and said, Oh, wow, we haven’t carried this brand in a while.
The woman shrugged. Okay, well, what can you do for me?
Her sense of entitlement floored me. Would it have killed her to look sorry?
The associate said, How about you pick out another pair of hiking boots and we do a straight swap? He added, If you don’t like what we have in store, we can order a pair online and have them delivered to your home?
Instead of falling over herself in gratitude, the woman said, I don’t really need hiking boots. What I need is a sturdy pair of sandals. Can I get some of those?
The associate’s forehead creased. I edged closer and pretended to study a pair of rubber flip-flops dangling from a rack. Was history about to be made? Had the Nordstrom return policy finally met its match?
The associate called over a manager, and they conferred for a few minutes before he announced, Good news! We can make that work!
Later, I’d recount the story to Winnie, who’d offer that she’d once seen someone return a faded plaid work shirt so old a hole had formed in one armpit seam.
Did he even give a reason?
Yes, the reason was the hole.
Winnie told me that ridiculously generous return policies had been one of the things that amazed her about America. Right up there with portion size, four-way stops, and water wastage. One hundred percent customer satisfaction, she said. That’s the American way.
I guess what I’m saying, Detective, is that Winnie convinced me that ours was a benign and victimless crime. For didn’t everyone in the equation go home happy? The online customer got to purchase a coveted designer handbag for a fair price from our eBay shop, the sales associate made a good commission from unwittingly selling a counterfeit, and even the customer to whom said counterfeit was sold very likely left satisfied. (And, if not, could easily make a return.) As long as this was the case, what did it matter that only one of those bags was the real thing?
Armed with this questionable pseudosubjectivist logic, Winnie pushed me to take on ever more consequential responsibilities. When I balked at inventory arriving at my door—what if Maria mistakenly opened a box?—Winnie told me to rent a unit in a nondescript South San Francisco office park. When I complained about being assigned too many returns, she had me hire and train more shoppers. Before I knew it, I’d turned into a one-woman HR department—and Winnie’s right hand. As she well knew, my entire career as an unhappy lawyer had primed me for this job. For the first time in my working life, I was managing an entire process from start to finish, seeing the immediate, tangible results of my labor, and that, after years of paperwork for the sake of paperwork, was groundbreaking.
By this point, our annual revenue was clearing two million, fifteen percent of which Winnie sent to Boss Mak per the terms of their original agreement. She paid me a sizable salary, too—as much as I’d made at the firm (in half the hours), a portion of which I gladly spent on Maria’s overtime.
No, I don’t think Maria has any idea what we were doing. In fact, I’m sure of it. All I’d told her was that I was helping my friend Winnie, reviewing contracts, advising on tariffs and tax issues, you know, boring stuff. I assume you gathered as much from her deposition? Once or twice, she might have opened the trunk of my car to find it packed with handbags, but I said it was for a charity fundraiser. Yes, of course I still consider her family. Why, does your family know each and every detail of your life?
I didn’t mean to snap. I guess I still regret the way she and I grew apart, and, more broadly, the way the constant lying took its toll on all my friendships. What Maria and I shared was real—we weren’t close in that fake treacly way that rich neoliberals are with their household help. I truly valued our relationship. Over tea and lemon cookies during Henri’s naptime, she’d vent about the men her sister kept trying to set her up with and her dad’s conservative political views, and I confided in her, too. She was the first person to whom I admitted that I hated being a lawyer, months before I even told my husband.
I have only myself to blame for what happened. One afternoon in April, about three months into working for Winnie, I was driving back from South San Francisco and got stuck on the freeway—a horrific car crash involving an overturned big rig. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper. I literally didn’t move for half an hour. Amid this gridlock, Oli texted to say he’d left work early and was on his way home. I knew there was a chance he’d beat me there and find Maria with Henri.
He, too, had no clue how much time I devoted to this work. I’d told him the same things I’d told Maria—that I was just keeping busy helping Winnie while I explored job options, and that yes, of course, she was paying me. I arranged for five thousand dollars to be deposited into the joint account each month. He didn’t probe, especially since the work appeared to distract me from complaining about his Palo Alto apartment.
I texted back to tell him I was stuck in traffic, and not to worry, Maria was staying late. When he asked where I’d gone, I lied that I’d driven to Menlo Park to have coffee with an old colleague.
Next, I called Maria to tell her she could leave once Oli got home. I paused then, reluctant to say what had to be said.
Anything else? she asked.
Actually, yes. Would you mind not mentioning South San Francisco? Say you don’t know where I went.
It was her turn to pause. Okay, she said, drawing out the last syllable.
What?
She hesitated. You always tell me where you’re going and how long you’ll be.
She was absolutely right. Okay, then will you tell him I drove to Menlo Park to meet a friend for coffee?
All right.
I felt like I owed her an explanation. I said, He knows I’m working part-time, but he doesn’t think I get paid enough, so I don’t want him to know how many hours I’m putting in.
Sure, all right. She never had questions.
I should have left it at that, but, silly me, the next morning, still feeling guilty about asking Maria to lie for me, I slipped an envelope with a fifty-dollar bill into her purse. Immediately, I felt better.
What’s this for? she asked later, waving the envelope by her chin like a paper fan. She looked genuinely confused.
Just . . . thank you for telling Oli, you know, where I was.
Her face clouded. You don’t have to pay me for that.
I know, I said quickly. It’s a thank-you for everything. You’ve helped so much these past weeks by staying late with Henri.
You pay me overtime. She set the envelope on the kitchen island between us.
I slid it back to her. It’s a small gesture of appreciation.
She cocked an eyebrow and muttered, Okay. Thanks.
After that Maria kept her distance. When I set out tea and cookies at the usual hour, she declined, saying she’d better run a load of laundry while she had the chance. Soon, we talked only about Henri and in a perfectly perfunctory manner. How much did he eat? What time did he poop? How long did he cry?
I fretted that she was growing dissatisfied with our family, and so, dipping into all that disposable income, I preemptively offered her a raise, which she accepted with the same suspicion, and which probably caused the further decline of our friendship.
Like I said, Detective, I took great pains to ensure that no one in my life had any clue what I was doing. Not only Oli and Maria, but also my friends Carla and Joanne. The one time the three of us finally managed to schedule an evening out, I stripped my new rose-gold Rolex off my wrist for fear of it raising questions.
Now that Joanne had a second child and Carla a serious boyfriend (this, on top of their already hectic careers as a VP at Banana Republic and an ob-gyn, respectively), we rarely got together. Back when Winnie had reappeared, we’d exchanged breathless witchy text messages, but I hadn’t told them she’d become my friend, not to mention my boss.
I was the first to get to the bar. They arrived together, arm in arm, a few minutes later. Once they took their seats, their questions were rapid-fire: How different did Winnie look? How often did she come to San Francisco? Why on earth was I hanging out with her so much?
Thankfully, before I could answer that last question, our waiter delivered frothy cocktails in mismatched vintage glassware, and my friends paused to take long appreciative sips. It was then that Joanne noticed my amethyst Kelly, which I’d brought along at the last minute, figuring my friends would get a kick out of it.
Is that what I think it is? she asked, reaching for the bag.
It’s a knockoff, I said quickly. I bought it in Hong Kong.
Purple! said Carla, who had no interest in designer fashion. How out of character. Have you ever, in your entire life, bought a purse that wasn’t black?
Joanne deemed it a good copy before she spotted my zebra-print flats beneath the table. We don’t see you for a couple of months and now you’re a whole new person? She turned to Carla. How long have I been trying to get her to branch out and wear color?
Years, said Carla. Maybe decades.
They asked if I’d figured out what Winnie really did for work.
Joanne said, I bet it’s something supershady. Import-export. Sanitation.
They laughed, and I laughed along.
Believe it or not, she was telling the truth, I said. She connects American leather goods companies to Chinese factories, and it’s as boring as it sounds. I should know. I’ve been going over her contracts since I have some free time.
You have? Since when? Carla asked.
Do you think that’s a good idea? said Joanne.
I assured them that I’d done my due diligence. After all, which one of us was the lawyer here?
The look they traded gave me a sense of all the text messages exchanged and lunches grabbed without me.
When they asked how Henri’s preschool applications had gone, I merely answered, Great! We just need to make a final decision! Let’s not discuss that. God knows I’ve wasted too much time on preschool already.
Joanne, whose two kids had attended one of the schools that had rejected us, nodded sympathetically. Later, I’d make up some bullshit story about how we’d had second thoughts about Divisadero Prep and managed to apply to Ming Liang at the last minute. And this is what Winnie had always known: as long as she could convince me to work for her, everything else would fall into place. The secrets I’d be forced to keep would alienate me from my loved ones, so that one day soon, I’d look around and find that the only one left to turn to was her.
Oh my god, said Joanne. We forgot to tell her.
Oh my god, Carla agreed. How was it not the first thing we mentioned?
Joanne’s face flushed in excitement. She said that she’d run into Helena Sontag, our old classmate, at a conference, and learned that she taught at UVA from time to time, in the MBA program.
And? I said, my annoyance rising like baking dough.
Carla assured me this was all crucial background information. A couple years ago, Helena had been teaching a marketing class when Winnie walked in and asked to audit.
I said that made sense since she’d lived in Charlottesville for a couple years while caring for her aunt.
Exactly, said Joanne, by now so riled up the color had spread down her neck. Except her aunt had already died and Winnie was still living there—and here Joanne paused for effect—because she was having an affair with her dead aunt’s husband.
That’s how she got her green card, Carla practically yelled, drawing looks from neighboring tables. By marrying her uncle.
Joanne turned to the gawking women at the neighboring table and clarified, No blood relation.
I tamped down my shock, not wanting to give my friends that satisfaction. I tried to remember the man who’d arrived at our dorm room with Winnie’s aunt all those years ago. The aunt I could conjure instantly. She’d worn a blazer and scarf despite the unseasonable heat, as well as an immense straw visor to shield her face from the sun. The husband, though, had been unremarkable. An average white man, neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. What had we talked about over dinner at Fuki Sushi? He didn’t eat raw fish, that I recalled—odd, but not egregious for the standards of the time.
Is that not the grossest thing ever? Joanne said.
It speaks to who she is at her core, said Carla. She’ll stop at nothing to get what she wants.
Their salacious delivery of this gossip, their knowing looks, their united front—all of it irritated me. I said something like, Maybe you don’t grasp the value of American citizenship. Maybe it’s something we all take for granted.
Ava, said Joanne. She married her aunt’s husband. That’s some Woody-Soon-Yi–level shit.
Don’t get in too deep with her, said Carla. We don’t know what she’s capable of.
I swore that I was barely involved in her business, that I’d committed to nothing, and then swiftly moved on to the topic of our upcoming fifteenth college reunion. It was a full five months away, yet weekly emails were already arriving in our in-boxes, reminding us to register and book hotel rooms and submit pictures for the slide show.
I don’t get why the fifteenth is a big deal, I said.
I’m going since I missed our tenth, said Joanne.
Carla said, If you both go, I’ll go.
They looked at me. I shrugged noncommittally.
Do you think Winnie will come? asked Joanne.
Is she allowed to? Carla asked.
I said I didn’t see why she would, especially since she wasn’t in touch with anyone.
Except you, said Carla.
Joanne peered into the depths of her cocktail glass as though trying to divine a message in the leftover froth. It’s so weird, her sudden reappearance, the way she sought you out.
Carla added, How the hell did she know Oli was a transplant surgeon? She isn’t on social media, and you hadn’t spoken to her in almost twenty years.
The alumni listserv, I said, before realizing that of course Winnie wouldn’t have access to it, since she’d never graduated.
But Joanne and Carla had already moved on.
Make sure you ask her about the uncle-husband and report back, Joanne said, as Carla signaled for the waiter to bring another round.
I longed to call off the order, to get up and leave. I didn’t want to spend another minute in that booth with these women, my oldest, closest friends.
You see, Detective, that’s how deep in I was. Instead of being repulsed by Winnie’s marriage to Bertrand Lewis, I held my friends’ wholly natural reaction to it against them. In fact, in my sick and addled mind, I admired Winnie for once again saying, To hell with the haters, I’m going to do what I have to do. That level of audacity, daring, nerve—well, it was intoxicating.