Page 7 of Fake it With Me

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.