Chapter 3
LIZA
The contracts arrived in my inbox before seven in the morning. I had barely slept the night before. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Darek Sullivan’s face.
He was a very attractive man and I supposed I was a little suspicious about why he was single.
He could have anyone. Why was he paying someone to pretend to be his girlfriend?
If I had met him in the wild, I would have definitely been interested.
I was sure there had to be at least a hundred women who would be willing to jump at the chance to be Mrs. Sullivan.
Then again, the other Mrs. Sullivan had bailed. Maybe he was a total dick. Della assured me she vetted all of her clients. He didn’t have a criminal record. He wasn’t violent, that she knew of. It was safe.
I read through the contract three times, looking for the catch.
The part where it said I’d have to donate a kidney or sign over my firstborn or agree to be featured in some humiliating reality show.
But it was straightforward. Almost boringly so.
One month. Public appearances as required.
Maintain the appearance of a romantic relationship.
Compensation of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars upon completion of the thirty-day term.
Nothing physical or romantic required. That phrase appeared four separate times in the document, like Della had anticipated my anxiety and addressed it preemptively.
And it was top secret. There was a pretty tight NDA. That was fine with me. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to advertising what I was willing to do for money.
But Janice didn’t count. My best friend would take all my secrets to the grave. And Darek was telling his lawyer. If he could tell one person, I could, too.
I signed it and sent it back before I could second-guess myself into oblivion.
Twenty minutes later, my phone pinged with a notification from my bank. A deposit of five thousand dollars had just hit my account.
I stared at the number, convinced it was a mistake.
But then Della texted: Advance for wardrobe and travel expenses. Have fun shopping! Let me know if you need anything else.
Five thousand dollars. For shopping.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone shopping for anything that wasn’t on clearance or from a thrift store. The idea that I now had five thousand dollars to spend on clothes felt obscene. Impossible.
But I knew exactly what I was going to do with it.
The grocery store was three blocks from my apartment, the same discount place where I’d bought those godforsaken croutons. I stood in the entrance for a moment, breathing in the smell of produce and industrial floor cleaner, feeling like I was about to commit a heist.
I grabbed a cart and started in the canned goods aisle.
Beans, canned and dried. The kind that lasted forever and could form the base of a hundred different meals.
I loaded them into my cart, not even looking at the prices.
Canned tomatoes. Tomato paste. Boxes of pasta in every shape.
Rice—the big ten-pound bag that was always the better value but that I’d never been able to afford all at once.
I moved through the store methodically, filling my cart with things that wouldn’t spoil. Peanut butter. Honey. Oatmeal. Flour and sugar and salt. Oil and vinegar.
The logic was simple, even if it felt paranoid. If this whole thing went sideways, I wouldn’t get the full payment. But at least I would have a full pantry. I could live on rice and beans and be a very happy woman.
I had always known a career in marine biology wouldn’t make me rich. I accepted that when I chose my field. But I never expected it to be quite so dire. I never expected to be actually going hungry, skipping meals not by choice but by necessity.
Graduate school had stripped me down to nothing.
The stipend barely covered rent in New York City, and my research required equipment and travel that grants didn’t quite stretch to cover.
I’d been running on fumes and desperation for so long that I had forgotten what it felt like to not be anxious about money every single second of every single day.
Standing in that grocery store with five thousand dollars in my account felt like being able to breathe for the first time in years. I paid with my debit card and didn’t even flinch.
By the time I hauled all the groceries up three flights of stairs to my apartment—the elevator had been broken for two months—I was sweating and my arms felt like limp noodles. But my cupboard was full.
I stood back and looked at it, feeling something uncomfortably close to tears.
Then I called Janice.
“I need you to help me shop for rich people clothes,” I blurted out.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I got the job. The Faux job. I’m going to Maine to be a fake girlfriend for a month, and apparently I need a wardrobe that doesn’t look like I’m as poor as I actually am.”
Janice screamed so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “Are you serious? Oh my god. I’m leaving work right now. Don’t you dare go shopping without me.”
“Janice, you can’t just leave work.”
“Watch me. I’m faking a migraine. I get one sick day a month and I’m using it to help my best friend transform into a rich bitch. Give me forty-five minutes.”
She hung up before I could argue.
Janice showed up in forty-two minutes, slightly breathless and wearing her work clothes—business casual that somehow looked expensive even though I knew she shopped at the same thrift stores I did.
She had a gift for that, for making anything look cool and hip, which was exactly why I needed her for this very important task.
“Okay,” she said, grabbing my hands and bouncing on her toes. “Tell me everything. And then we’re going to Bloomingdale’s.”
“We are not going to Bloomingdale’s. I was thinking maybe Macy’s or I don’t know, anywhere but there. I’m pretty sure they would kick my broke ass out.”
“Liza. You have five thousand dollars and you’re going to be hanging out with billionaires. We’re going to Bloomingdale’s. And you’re not broke now.”
Bloomingdale’s felt like a foreign country where I didn’t speak the language. Everything was too white, too bright, too expensive. A sales associate approached us immediately, probably sensing that we didn’t belong, ready to politely escort us to the exit.
But then Janice said, in a voice I’d never heard her use before, “We’re looking for yacht club appropriate attire. My friend is spending the summer in Maine.”
The woman’s demeanor changed instantly. Suddenly we belonged. Suddenly we were worth her time.
“Of course,” she purred. “Right this way.”
We followed her to a section where the price tags made my eyes water. I only had five grand. Well, about two hundred shy given my little grocery shopping spree.
“What exactly does one wear to a yacht club?” I asked. “Do you drape sweaters over your shoulders instead of actually wearing them? Is that a real thing or just something they do in movies?”
Janice grinned. “I have no idea. Are boat shoes a thing? Or is that just what they’re called and you wear them everywhere?”
“I think you’re thinking of Sperry’s. Rich people definitely wear those.”
The sales associate returned with an armful of options. Sundresses in pastels. Linen pants. Blouses that probably cost more than my monthly rent. A blazer that felt like butter when I touched it.
“Try these on,” she instructed. “And don’t worry about the prices. You can make decisions based on fit and style.”
Don’t worry about the prices. As if that were possible. But I went into the fitting room and started trying things on.
The first dress fit like it had been made for me. Soft blue linen hitting just above my knee in a way that felt elegant without being matronly. I stepped out to show Janice.
“Holy shit,” she said. “You look like you own a yacht.”
“I look like I’ve committed identity theft,” I countered, but I was smiling.
We spent the next two hours playing dress-up, building a wardrobe for a version of me that didn’t exist yet. Janice kept making me laugh with her running commentary on the people we’d presumably be rubbing elbows with.
“If you want to fit in, you have to send food back to the kitchen. Rich bitches always find something to complain about.”
“What?”
“I’m serious. I used to waitress at that fancy place on the Upper East Side, remember?
These women would order a salad and then send it back because the lettuce wasn’t ‘crisp enough.’ And they’d be so rude about it.
No compassion for the hardworking staff, no awareness that they’re making someone’s life harder for no reason. ”
I looked at her, horrified. “I could never do that.”
“I know you couldn’t. You’re too nice. You’re going to be the worst fake rich person ever.” She grinned. “But I love you anyway.”
“This is just a means to an end,” I said, more to myself than to her. “A stepping stone. I do this for one month, get enough money to finish my dissertation, and then I go back to my real life. I’m not going to turn into one of those people.”
“I know.” Janice smiled. “You’re one of the good ones, Liza. Don’t forget that.”
On our way to pay for everything, I spotted a display in the children’s section. Stuffed animals arranged like they were having a tea party.
And right in the middle was a little plush whale. Blue and white, with a friendly smile stitched onto its face. I picked it up without thinking.
“For the kid?” Janice asked.
“Yeah. Darek’s daughter. Daisie. She’s seven.” I turned the whale over in my hands, examining the stitching. “I figured it might help break the ice. I’m not great with kids.”
“You’re great with everything. You’re just overthinking it.”
“I’ve never really spent time around children.
What if she hates me? What if I’m terrible at this and I ruin everything?
” The anxiety that had been lurking at the edges of my consciousness all day suddenly rushed forward.
“Oh god, Janice. What am I doing? I’m going to live with a man I don’t know and his seven-year-old daughter and pretend to be his girlfriend and I have no idea how to do any of this. It feels so wrong.”
“Hey.” Janice grabbed my shoulders. “Breathe. You’re going to be fine. You’re smart and adaptable and you’re literally a scientist who studies the ocean. If you can track whale migration patterns, you can handle one billionaire and his kid.”
“Those things are not remotely similar.”
“They’re both large mammals that require observation and patience.”
Despite everything, I laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right though.” She took the whale from me and added it to our pile. “Buy the whale. Be nice to the kid. Don’t send food back to the kitchen. And remember that this is temporary. One month, and then you’re free.”
We paid and I watched my bank account drop by three thousand dollars, still leaving me with two thousand. Then it was time to find a cocktail dress. Della specifically said I needed a cocktail dress, and while Bloomingdale’s had plenty, none quite hit the mark.
This was exhausting. I wasn’t a shopper. Finally, we found one that cost over a thousand dollars. I nearly cried paying for it. But it was a necessity for the job.
“I’m going to miss you,” Janice said.
I hugged her with bags hanging from my arms. “I’ll miss you, too. I’m assuming I’ll be allowed to call and text. I have no idea how busy I’ll actually be, but I will keep you updated.”
She stepped back and grabbed my shoulders. “Have fun. This is an experience of a lifetime and you’re getting paid to do it. Don’t feel guilty. Don’t feel like you’re doing something wrong. Just. Have. Fun.”
Easier said than done.
“I will.”
Back at my apartment, surrounded by shopping bags and full grocery shelves, I started packing for Maine.
This could be a huge mistake. Darek could be a nightmare to live with. His daughter could hate me. The whole arrangement could implode in the first week, and I’d be back here with nothing to show for it but a closet full of clothes I’d never wear again.
And a full pantry, I reminded myself.
But I literally couldn’t afford to say no. Not with the very real possibility that I would have to drop out of my PhD program because I couldn’t survive long enough to finish it.
It was my one chance to get ahead. Whatever the next month was going to look like, I had to make it work.