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I turned to see a face that was familiar, but which I couldn’t immediately place. I estimated her to be in her late sixties, but it was clear she’d had some cosmetic upkeep. Her hair was a graceful shade of gray pulled into a severe French twist with side-swept black bangs. She looked like a friendlier version of Cruella De Vil.
Still, I had no idea who she was, so it was a relief when the woman said, “Excuse me, but I think we live in the same building. You’re Neil Elwood’s wife, aren’t you?”
At once, I felt the piercing, interested gazes of the three salespeople standing within earshot. I ignored them.
“Fiancé,” I corrected the woman with a smile. “But yes, I think I saw you in the elevator. You had the…”
“Yorkie,” she supplied, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, my sweet Anastasia. I live for her every day.”
“Wow, that’s…” Uncomfortable. “Really great that you love your dog so much.”
Out of force of habit—I’d dealt with too many socialites when working for Gabriella—I looked down at her purse to make sure Anastasia the Yorkie wasn’t panting happily inside.
Holy. Fuck. The woman was carrying a Birkin bag.
It wasn’t that I had never seen a Birkin in the wild before. Gabriella had seven, with color-coordinating leather gloves for winter. Occasionally, they breezed into the office on the arm of a designer or celebrity. But this person lived in my apartment building, and a lovely coral-toned leather Birkin rested its handles casually over her arm.
This close, I could see the stitching. I swear, I almost had an orgasm right there.
“You like the bag.” It wasn’t a question, and her eyes twinkled like we were sharing a secret. “It was supposed to have been my daughter’s. She killed herself six years ago and I got her place on the waiting list.”
Jesus. Christ. What the hell was I supposed to say to that? The lady almost sounded happy that her daughter had died, so she could get the damn bag.
I had definitely stepped into a different world.
“Of course, that was back when there was a waiting list,” she opined with a little sigh that seemed to ask what was the world coming to? She lifted one hand, encased in a glove that was probably made out of orca leather or some other borderline-legal luxury animal product and wiggled her fingers at a salesperson. “Debra! Debra, yoo hoo!”
Debra wasn’t one of the associates who’d heard the strange lady proclaim me Neil Elwood’s fiancé, so when she came over, my neighbor introduced me as such: “This is Neil Elwood’s fiancée. You know Neil Elwood, I’m sure. He threw that fundraiser for the land mines what was it, eight years ago? Paul McCartney played.”
“I’m Sophie,” I told Debra, extending my hand.
Debra was better at dealing with this kind of uncomfortable conversation than I was. Her bewilderment lasted only a few seconds before a distant, professional smile replaced it. “How do you do, Sophie? Have you shopped with us before?”
“The future Mrs. Elwood was quite keen on my purse,” weirdo neighbor lady said. “You should show her what you have in stock.”
I could tell from Debra’s vibe that the last thing she wanted to do was sully the holy Birkin name by showing me the stock. But that just made me angry. Okay, so I’d bought my jeans at Banana Republic. So I couldn’t afford a ten-thousand dollar handbag on my own. Big freaking deal. I was about to marry a billionaire. I lived in a freaking Manhattan palace. If I wanted to be a New York socialite trophy wife, dammit, this jerk wasn’t going to stop me!
I lifted my chin and took a breath, as though I were considering. Then I said, “You know, I really would like to see what you have in stock.”
“Soph?” I heard Holli ask behind me, all gentle, like I was a horse about to bolt into a barn fire. “Did you just ask to see a Birkin bag?”
“I did.” The wild, dangerous rush I used to feel when I’d occasionally shoplifted in middle school came back to me with a vengeance. Not that I planned on stealing the bag, of course. I would just look at it, pronounce that isn’t a color I liked or some other lofty, totally unbelievable excuse, and go. But it felt risky even doing that. Despite the fact that the infamous waiting list had been retired, the bags were still ultra-expensive status symbols.
“We do have one in stock. I’ll go a
nd get it,” Debra said with fake warmth before heading off to the back.
“Well, this has been quite charming, but I must dash,” Neighbor Lady said with a pleasant smile. “Do enjoy your bag.”
“Yeah. Bye,” I managed. I felt like I’d just been run over by a train. I hadn’t even gotten her name. She was like a malicious purse fairy or something.
“So, you’re seriously looking at a Birkin?” Holli shook her head. “You realize how much those cost, right?”
“Yes, I worked for the top fashion magazine in the country, thank you, I know how much they are.” My face was burning. I felt the weirdest urge to prove something, to someone. I just didn’t know what and to whom. To the neighbor lady, that I belonged in the building because we had matching purses? To Debra, the sales person I would probably never see again in my entire life, that I was somehow cosmically deserving of an astronomically priced bag?
Or maybe I was just trying to prove all of that to myself. But for whatever reason, when Debra returned with the gorgeous, pale alligator leather bag, I knew I was going to buy it, no matter the price.
It was the most beautiful purse I’d ever seen. It was the pale tan of a McDonald’s chocolate shake, or maybe just a touch lighter. The fact that it was such a large bag and made out of alligator skin was pretty impressive; most alligators don’t have enough leather for a presentable thirty-five centimeter bag with pockets. And this wasn’t just presentable. It was a marvel, with its gleaming gold hardware and matching alligator leather sleeve for the tiny padlock that would keep the bag from being opened. I lifted the Birkin from the glass-topped counter like it was a holy relic and breathed, “How much?”
