Page 14 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 of The Crown to 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, and neither 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 in black is the only acceptable color New 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 a business plan.”

“I’ve only ever had a personal plan—at least, I did back in the day. As a teenager.” I think back to my vision board. “But it wasn’t even a plan, really. More like ... I had a vision of how I wanted my life to be.”

“How did that work out?”

“Not well.” I step out of the changing room. “The skirt lifts when I twirl,” I inform him, like I’m selling him a car and I want him to know about the built-in safety features.

“Do you twirl a lot?” he asks, looking thoroughly confused.

I pull in a breath and lift my arms to the sky to check it’s not too short. “Not as a general rule.”

“Good,” he says. “I think it’s acceptable, so we’ll take it. What’s next?”

“Acceptable?” I ask. “Gee, you really know how to make a girl feel good.”

He blinks, holding my gaze. I’m not sure what he’s thinking until he announces, “It’s a nine out of ten. Next.”

I flit back into the changing room before the heat in my cheeks turns my face the same color as my dress.

I want to ask him more about the score. What makes it a nine?

Is me in the dress a nine, or does the dress meet some kind of suitability criteria he has in his five-year plan?

I hunt through the different garments for the next outfit.

“What would a person even put in their personal life plan?” he asks out of nowhere, like he’s been mulling over the idea of my vision board and suddenly wants details.

“I had a lot of pictures of Daniel De Luca on mine.”

“The film star? How old are you?”

“I was fourteen. What images would fourteen-year-old you have in your personal life plan? A copy of Forbes and a tie?” I laugh as I imagine Ben at fourteen, super serious, wearing a suit to play basketball and asking girls about their favorite element on the periodic table.

“Strawberry shortcake,” he answers.

“Is that a cartoon character?” I ask. “Or a porn star?”

“A pudding.” His tone is wistful, as if he’s remembering something important.

I internally decode “pudding” to “dessert” for my American brain. It seems too unbusinesslike to be on Ben’s vision board, even when Ben was fourteen.

“You have a sweet tooth, huh?” I pull out a black dress from under the other hangers and compare it with a green one hanging next to it.

I absolutely hate wearing green. For some reason it always makes me feel like a frumpy aunt who may or may not have psychic abilities.

I’m not sure whether to get it out of the way and try it first or try the black and hope he likes it so we don’t need to look at the green one.

“Do you come to New York much?” I ask. I tug the green one off the hanger.

This is on Ben’s dollar. He should see all the dresses.

“You should try Serendipity 3 next time you’re in town.

Best desserts in the city. I used to take Jed on his birthday. ”

He pauses. “Jed?”

I step out of the changing room and put my hands on my hips. “What do you think?”

He glances down my body and then back up to my face. He holds my gaze for a beat, then two. “Clearly you don’t like it, so it’s a no.”

Heat balls in my chest. I hope I didn’t offend him. “It’s fine if you like it,” I say.

“Try the black one and tell me about Jed.”

I disappear behind the curtain, a combination of embarrassment and thrill mixing in my veins.

Part of me feels bad that I didn’t like the green dress.

It’s not me paying, after all, and I’m in Ralph Lauren.

Nothing’s so bad I couldn’t make it through an evening wearing it.

But another part of me is kinda excited that Ben took my feelings into account.

He was nice when he didn’t need to be, and he paid attention to my unspoken feelings, which he also didn’t need to do.

What does it say about my relationship with Jed that Ben’s attention and thoughtfulness feel like a novelty?

I tuck the thought and the green dress away, content to hide them both from sight. “What do you want to know?” I call.

“Is he a recent ex?” he asks.