Something in the Water(50)

The redheaded assistant takes the cue and bobs her head in agreement as the blonde continues.

“So, we’ve spoken to your husband and we understand you are looking for three separate daywear options today. Is that right?” She sounds thrilled.

My eyes flick to Mark in surprise. Three outfits. He grins and shrugs. Okay, I see what we’re doing; we’re having fun. That’s what we’re doing. There’s no messing around here; we really are going for this. I take a breath.

“Yes. Yes, three daywear options would be fantastic,” I reply as if it’s the sort of thing I usually say.

“Lovely, well, let me get the fall/winter collection book and you can take a look. We got the new collection in over the weekend, so we should have pretty much everything. Oh, what size do you take? We can measure you but just as a guide?”

“French 34,” I say. Because I may not own any Chanel but I damn well know my French sizing.

The catalog is found and pored over. Sparkling water is supplied.

I need something appropriate to wear, something someone with a million dollars in cash, in a bag, might wear. I need to look polished, put together. Like someone you wouldn’t question, someone you wouldn’t mess with.

We start the fitting with a signature bouclé wool pencil skirt and the pink silk blouse. But Mark and I quickly come to the conclusion that it might be a tad too formal for our requirements. After all, I don’t want to look like I work at the bank.

Next, we try a silk sundress in caramel from the spring/summer collection. It’ll still be just about warm enough for it in Geneva, and paired with a jacket, it would work perfectly. It hangs from me in a way no item of clothing ever has, loosely draping from gossamer-thin spaghetti straps, showing just the right amount of South Pacific tan across my décolletage, and then plunging airily down between my breasts. The assistant pairs it with thick golden hoop earrings and cream espadrilles. When I look in the mirror I’m transformed, into someone else, another version of myself. A Greek heiress with a sugar daddy, Santorini-ready.

One outfit down. Two to go. The redhead arrives with champagne in tall crisp flutes. I think of my test yesterday and sip lightly.

The second outfit we decide on is a pairing of skintight black leather trousers and a thin black cashmere roll-neck, with a string of Chanel jewelry draped over me and finished with black ankle boots and a black cape coat. Minimal, sexy.

The final outfit we all decide on is a 1960-inspired bouclé top with a “space-suit neckline” in black and gray wool with hidden sparkles in the Chanel fabric. Underneath, tailored black culottes, ankle boots, and over it all a classic Chanel winter coat in the same fabric as the top. One hundred percent Emirates princess. Polished to perfection.

I finish off my sparkling water while Mark pays—I can’t even imagine what the damage is—and we say our goodbyes, leaving two extremely happy sales assistants in our wake.

We head to Bottega Veneta next. We need a new bag for the money; I can’t just take Mark’s old weekend bag into the bank with me. I need something less conspicuous, more appropriate, something I might carry. We find the perfect size and shape, a Bottega Veneta oyster gray, woven-leather duffel bag. We can load it up with money, and I can change, once we’re safely in our hotel room in Geneva. And with that we’re done, just as our boarding call comes through.





I’m now sitting on the edge of a bed in the Four Seasons Hotel des Bergues in Geneva. The voucher Leila issued in Bora Bora came in handy really quickly. My heart is hammering.

Mark is on the phone to Tanguy from UCB Banque Privée Suisse again.

I’m dressed for the appointment now. There’s a chill in the air here, so I decided on the second option, skintight leather trousers and soft cashmere. Smart, sophisticated, sexy, a woman who knows her own mind. I do look like the kind of person who would be opening this sort of account; beside me sits the Bottega Veneta duffel bag, a bag befitting the fortune inside it. I look across at myself in the floor-length mirror as Mark’s voice drifts in from the suite’s sitting room. The woman in the mirror is wealthy, she’s confident. I certainly look the part even if I don’t feel it.

Mark finishes the call and comes in to join me.

I’ll be the one doing the heavy lifting today. I’m the one who has to walk into the bank alone and hand over one million dollars in a Bottega Veneta duffel bag. I feel my heart palpitate, deep inside my chest, at the very idea of it.

“Don’t think of it like that,” Mark tells me. “Don’t think of it as you handing over a hugely suspicious bag in the middle of a bank. Because they won’t see it that way. Seriously, Erin. If you’d seen half the stuff I’d seen in banking…Listen, I went out with some oil guys in Mayfair once and they carried a hundred thousand pounds in cash around in a gym bag. One hundred thousand pounds, for a night out. I know it seems unreal to us, and money in a duffel bag feels very illegal, but there’s no law against carrying money around in bags. Is there? And you can’t carry that much in a handbag, so of course it’s a duffel bag. Right?”

I just stare at him. I might need to vomit again. I did earlier.

It’s just nerves. The vomiting. Delicate flower that I am. It’s only the deep shifting tidal cramps in my womb that are the first actual signs of the pregnancy. Yawning aches in the core of me. I Googled them this morning. Hormones. I worked out that from the first day of my last period I’m six weeks pregnant. Apparently the cramps are perfectly normal at this stage. I suppose my body is preparing to make a whole human being. I’m trying not to think about it too much. Mark doesn’t know yet. And it hardly seems the time, does it?