“Good.” Diamond leans back in her chair. “Go pack your things. You’re leaving for Oxford with Will tomorrow.”
The trip overseas falls, yet again, on a week when Sam would have gone home to have dinner with her mother.
“Where to?” her mother asks over the phone.
“Berlin,” Sam replies. “They’ve never sent me overseas before.”
“Berlin.” There’s a pause on the other end of the line before her mother continues. “Why are you going to Berlin?”
Sam explains, following a script that Will approved to tell her mother. It’s a business conference and she has been asked to sit in on meetings for a global deal. All the while, she fights down waves of nausea, the dread of her looming assignment perpetually pushing against her chest.
“Tell me when you’re leaving and where you’re staying,” her mother says. “So in case something goes wrong, I know where to reach you.”
Sam swallows and follows through on her lie. “I will.”
She emails her the false tickets that had been bought for her and the false hotel booking in the city center, even shows her the spots in the city she’s planning to tour during her spare moments. She sends her mother so many pieces of the lie that, for a moment, even she thinks that perhaps this is where she’s really going, this is what she’s really doing.
Two days later, her mother texts.Will you come over when you return?
I promise,Sam types back.
They arrive in Londinium at midnight, where a team is waiting for them on the tarmac with several black town cars. The next morning, the day before they leave for Oxford, Will takes her—of all things—shopping.
“Why?” she asks as their chauffeur drives them to the luxury boutiques on Bond Street. It’s a sunny day, the blue sky a backdrop for rows of trees ablaze with summer blossoms. Following them in a second car are two polemists, far enough to be discreet, near enough that Sam can spot it when she looks over her shoulder.
“You’re about to attend a conference for a science that prizes perfection above all else,” Will answers.
“And?”
“And you don’t have the appropriate attire for it,” he says dryly.
“How do you know I don’t?” she retorts.
He sighs, casting her a lingering look, and she shudders, pleased. “Doyou want to argue with me over nothing?” he says. “Or do you want me to buy you something nice?”
Despite the busy streets, the places they visit are empty when they arrive and stay empty until they leave. Louis Vuitton and Hermès close their doors, offering them an exclusive experience. At Dior, Will is recognized the instant he steps inside and, within minutes, they are escorted upstairs to a private lounge, where flutes of champagne and trays of tea cakes and desserts are waiting for them. The sales team flutters nervously around Will, asking if he would like something to drink, something to eat, asking what they’re looking for while they bring out racks and racks of clothes. The polemists wait quietly by the stairs, their eyes trained on the commotion.
Sam tries on an array of items tailored specifically for her because the House already knows her measurements. She slides on shoes wrapped in silk, selects a clutch studded with diamonds. There are no price tags to be seen anywhere. She has no idea how much any of their purchases cost, and Will seems to have no interest in asking. In fact, even though the entire experience is drenched in money, not once is money ever mentioned.
As when she’d seen the million dollars deposited into her account, Sam gets the dizzying sensation of being unmoored, that she is now navigating through a world she has never before been allowed to touch. Again, she feels that mixture of excitement and fear. Of course Will knew that she didn’t have the right attire. She’s new money. She understands what a million dollars is, but she has no idea that there’s an entire culture within wealth, does not speak the language of it.
Will is fitted for a new suit, a sapphire so deep that it looks nearly black, with thread-thin lines of orange on the collar. Sam goes to a private room to try on a series of dresses, baby blues and butter yellows and midnight blacks. Each fits her like a glove.
When Will is called in to see the final dress, he stands there and studies her for a long moment. Sam fights to remain still before his searing gaze, dismayed at the flush rising on her cheeks, hoping he won’t notice.
If he does, he doesn’t reveal it. But his eyes wander the length of her, and after a while, he turns to the tailor. “That’ll do,” he says, and takes his leave.
As the tailor flutters about her and fusses over the hem, Sam lets out a shaky breath and tries to steady herself. But when she closes her eyes, she can still envision him standing at the edge of the room, watching her as if she were being stripped bare.
At Harry Winston, a saleswoman settles them on a velvet sofa in a private room and then brings out trays of jewels for them to inspect. Sam peers at a bracelet with a small rabbit set in the middle of it, Peter Rabbit with his jacket and shoes before he loses them in his flight from Mr. McGregor’s garden. It is all platinum and white sapphires. It reminds Sam of her Rabbit, the used stuffed animal from her childhood.
She is still staring when she hears Will’s voice next to her. “Do you like it?” he asks.
Sam looks at him, stunned into silence, and nods.
Will gestures at the saleswoman. The saleswoman immediately comes forward, carefully removing the bracelet with gloved hands. She holds it out for Sam to inspect.
“One of a kind, miss,” she declares as Sam peers at it.
