Page 17 of The Paradise Problem

“But it’s this kind of stuff I don’t even know,” I say. “Like, who gets tipped? That guy? And how much? Is couch change insulting?”

“I think it depends if there’s a dead body in there. We’ll add tipping etiquette to the research you have to do later.”

“Research?”

“Designers, real estate, restaurants, travel.”

“How do you know all of this?” I ask.

Vivi shrugs. “Real Housewives.”

We get to work on the box, coaxing it open with a steak knife and spatula. Inside there is neither a stack of briefcases nor a dead body but another box, this one with an envelope taped to the outside.

The envelope contains a set of papers stapled together and folded into neat thirds, a check for $10,000 (“Initial deposit” it says in the memo section and hello, this feels very Pretty Woman), an American Express black card (holy shit it’s heavy), and a first-class plane ticket on Singapore Airlines.

I need to sit down again.

Vivi takes the metallic credit card from my hand and whistles, tapping it against her manicured nail. “I’ve never even seen one of these. You could buy a house with this card.”

“I know.” I take it back, looking at it. It has my name on it. Goose bumps break out along my arms. “How does he know I won’t use this to buy a giraffe?” Is West this trusting, or this desperate?

We work together to pry open the interior box, which holds a beautiful set of bright blue RIMOWA luggage, complete with personalized luggage tags.

“ ‘AGW,’ ” I read. “I guess I went with ‘Weston’ after all.”

Vivi runs her hands over the suitcases. “These are the sexiest bags I’ve ever seen.”

“But overboard, maybe?” I stare down at them. They’re gorgeous but come on. “I have luggage.”

“Anna, I’ve seen your luggage. The only thing sadder would be a handkerchief tied to the end of a stick.”

“Okay, but this?” I point to the gleaming hard-sided cubes. “These look like Transformers.”

Vivi ignores this, unfolding the crisp set of papers. “He sent an itinerary.” She whistles. “Girl. There’s a party almost every day.”

My stomach drops. “What? More than just the wedding?”

Vivi openly laughs at me. “Rich people love a party. Oh,” she says, perking up, “there’s a list of the clothing items you’ll need.” Distractedly, while I try to figure out how to set the lock combination on my new robot bags, I listen as she reads the list aloud: “Travel attire, four cocktail dresses, three day-party dresses, a rehearsal dinner gown, wedding guest gown, casual outfits for ten to twelve days, three to four bathing suits, shoes, undergarments, blah blah, upscale loungewear—”

I look up. “What’s ‘upscale loungewear’? Like, yoga pants?”

Vivi stares at me in concern. “No, sweetie. Like, cashmere robes and silk pajamas.”

“Cashmere on an island?”

“I’m pretty sure when you’re this rich you pay somebody else to sweat for you. Besides, I’m just describing the category. He probably means you should have a set of pajamas that perfectly complements your diamond necklace.”

“I don’t have a diamond necklace.”

She holds up an iconic turquoise box. “You do now.”

“Holy shit. Do I open it?”

“Seems the only way you’ll find out what’s inside. I could open it if you wa—”

“Give it to me.” I tug at the white satin ribbon and take off the lid. Inside is another turquoise box, this one velvet and hinged. Inside sits a diamond solitaire pendant on what I assume is a platinum chain. I can barely breathe. “Vivi. This cost him Baby Driver money.”

“I hate you so much right now,” she says. “Are you sure you never banged this guy?”

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