Such Charming Liars

“Would the young lady like to see something with a pearl?”

“I’d love to,” I say.

The voice I use isn’t mine. It’s what Gem calls “vaguely posh”; meant to convey a childhood at British boarding schools interrupted by a transatlantic move to New England that almost, but not entirely, eliminated my accent. It’s a lot to get across in three words and I don’t think I nailed it, but the man behind the counter smiles kindly.

“Sixteen is an important birthday,” he says.

I couldn’t agree more, which is why I spent mine in my friend Hannah’s hot tub with Nick Sheridan and a flask of tequila.

But now is not the time to share that recollection, so I just smile demurely as Gem says, “A special day for my special girl.”

Gem’s accent is impeccable. She sounds like a BBC presenter and looks like a twenty-first-century version of the grandmother on Downton Abbey. I barely recognized her when she came to pick me up, and couldn’t stop stealing glances at her transformation during the drive to the Prudential Center in Back Bay. Gem’s coarse steel- gray hair is concealed beneath a silvery chignon. She’s decked out in an elegant blue suit that would fit in at a royal wedding, and she’s done some kind of makeup magic that’s tamed her leathery skin into soft, powdery lines.

I don’t recognize myself, either, when I glance into the mirror behind the counter. I’m a buttery blond, for one thing, and I’m wearing a blouse-and-skirt combo that looks expensive, even though I’m sure it’s not. The nonprescription tortoiseshell glasses I have on are so cute that I might make them a permanent part of my wardrobe. Gem and I are cosplaying the kind of people who swan into Bennington & Main to celebrate birthdays with expensive jewelry, and we are pulling it off.

“Something like this?” the sales associate asks, holding up a delicate rose-gold ring with a single gray pearl. It’s exactly the kind of ring a wealthy, indulgent grandmother would buy, and even though Gem is none of those things, she gives a regal nod of approval.

“Try it on, Sophie,” she says.

I slip it onto my right index finger and hold out my hand, admiring the subtle shine. Not my style at all, but perfect for Sophie Hicks-Hartwell. That’s my getting-into-character name, which I picked not only because it, too, sounds vaguely posh, but because it’s the name of a girl whose Instagram identity was stolen in a twisted true crime story that I devoured recently on my favorite podcast. A little inside joke that even Gem didn’t catch.

“It’s so pretty,” I say. “What do you think, Nana?”

“Very sweet,” Gem says, peering over her bifocals. “But a bit on the small side.”

That’s the cue for the sales associate, whose name tag reads BERNARD, to show us bigger and better rings. Gem’s eyes rove over them like dual cameras, capturing every detail of the luxe designs and storing them away for future reference. Gem might be pushing seventy, but her memory is a thousand times sharper than mine. Photographic, my mother always says.

“Should we look at something with a diamond?” she asks.

Hell yeah is on the tip of my tongue, but that’s a Kat response. Sophie would never. “Really? Could we?” I simper as Bernard pulls out another tray.

“Looks like your grandmother is getting ready to spoil you,” he says, eyes gleaming with the reflected glow of a bigger commission.

For the first time, my stomach swoops guiltily. When Gem proposed this little field trip, I was more than happy to come along, because Bennington & Main is a retail nightmare—a historic family- owned store that got snapped up by an obnoxious crypto billionaire and transformed into a Tiffany copycat. The new CEO hired an emerging designer to update what he called the company’s “staid” style, then fired her once her designs took off.

In other words, Bennington & Main is the perfect target for Gem’s latest business: selling near- perfect fakes of iconic jewelry designs. Customers get the look they want at sterling-and- cubic-zirconia prices, and a shady company loses value.

Win-win, if by win you mean a crypto bro loses. Which I do.

But none of that is Bernard’s fault. We’re just wasting his time while Gem studies the latest Bennington & Main designs, cataloging all the tiny details you can’t see on a website. “Exquisite,” she murmurs, holding up a diamond vine ring that’s so perfectly constructed it looks like a wearable sculpture. I know from our online stalking that the ring Gem is holding costs more than $20,000, so it’s out of even Sophie’s league.

Still, I can’t help but lean closer, imagining what it would be like to own something so beautiful. To wave at a friend or swipe at my phone while it casually sparkles on my hand.

I’ve seen an unusual amount of fine jewelry in my lifetime for someone who’s (a) sixteen and (b) flat broke, but this . . . this is something special.

“And not for you,” Gem adds with an arch smile in my direction. And even though she’s playing a role, the words still sting. Not for you. Sometimes it feels like that applies to almost everything a girl my age is supposed to have. “Maybe on your twenty-first birthday.”

“We’ll hold it for you till then,” Bernard jokes, and it’s official—I feel like a jerk. I want out of this store, and more important, out of Sophie’s pampered little head. Surely Gem’s had enough time by now? But when I try to catch her eye, she’s still peering at the vine ring.