Counterfeit: A Novel

by Kirstin Chen

Genres: General Fiction; Asian American; Thrillers; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

"Chen keeps readers on the edge of their seats as she weaves an addictive tale about the high/low world of counterfeit luxury handbags . . . A glittering, provocative read."—JANICE Y.K. LEE, New York Times bestselling author of The Expatriates

"Sly and thoroughly compelling . . . Chen's ingenious plot will keep you breathless to the last page."—CLAIRE MESSUD, New York Times bestselling author of The Burning Girl

For fans of Hustlers and How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia, the story of two Asian American women who band together to grow a counterfeit handbag scheme into a global enterprise—an incisive and glittering blend of fashion, crime, and friendship from the author of Bury What We Cannot Take and Soy Sauce for Beginners.

Money can’t buy happiness...but it can buy a decent fake.

Ava Wong has always played it safe. As a strait-laced, rule-abiding Chinese American lawyer with a successful surgeon as a husband, a young son, and a beautiful home—she’s built the perfect life. But beneath this façade, Ava’s world is crumbling: her marriage is falling apart, her expensive law degree hasn’t been used in years, and her toddler’s tantrums are pushing her to the breaking point.

Enter Winnie Fang, Ava’s enigmatic college roommate from Mainland China, who abruptly dropped out under mysterious circumstances. Now, 20 years later, Winnie is looking to reconnect with her old friend. But the shy, awkward girl Ava once knew has been replaced with a confident woman of the world, dripping in luxury goods, including a coveted Birkin in classic orange. The secret to her success? Winnie has developed an ingenious counterfeit scheme that involves importing near-exact replicas of luxury handbags and now she needs someone with a US passport to help manage her business—someone who’d never be suspected of wrongdoing, someone like Ava. But when their spectacular success is threatened and Winnie vanishes once again, Ava is left to face the consequences.

Swift, surprising, and sharply comic, Counterfeit is a stylish and feminist caper with a strong point of view and an axe to grind. Peering behind the curtain of the upscale designer storefronts and the Chinese factories where luxury goods are produced, Kirstin Chen interrogates the myth of the model minority through two unforgettable women determined to demand more from life.

 

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Release date: June 7, 2022

Publisher: Harper Collins

Sample

1

The first thing I noticed was the eyes. They were anime-character huge, with thick double-eyelid folds, expertly contoured in coppery tones, framed by premium lash extensions, soft and full as a fur pelt. Then there was the hair—sleek yet voluminous, nipple-length barrel curls—and the skin, poreless and very white. And the clothes—sumptuous silk blouse, patent Louboutins. And, finally, the bag—an enormous Birkin 40 in classic orange. Back then, I wouldn’t have known all these details, although, like most people, I knew those bags were absurdly expensive and impossible to obtain. All of this is just to say, the woman standing in the doorway of my neighborhood coffee shop looked rich. Asian-tourist rich. Mainland-Chinese rich. Rich-rich.

Of course I was surprised. Almost twenty years had passed since I’d last seen her, and she looked nothing like my freshman-year roommate. In fact, she didn’t even sound like her. Back at Stanford she’d had a thick singsong accent. Each word she spoke curled in around the edges like a lettuce leaf. She struggled with the “th” sound, so mothercame out mo-zer; other, o-zer. Now, though, it would have taken me a few lines to figure out that she was from China. On the phone, when she’d identified herself, she’d pronounced her last name like the tooth. Ava? Is that you? It’s Winnie Faaang.

Why on earth did she want to catch up? How did she even get my number? In hindsight, she must have had her private investigator track me down, but when I asked her then, she answered breezily, Oh, I looked you up in the alumni listserv.

I didn’t think to question her further. I agreed to meet for coffee, a part of me curious to see what had become of her. She’d dropped out of school so suddenly, midway through our first year. None of my college friends were in touch with her, and she didn’t use social media, at least not under her real name. Still, rumors drifted in from time to time: we heard she’d gone back to her hometown of Xiamen and graduated college there, that she moved to Virginia to care for an ailing aunt, that she married an American and quickly divorced. A friend of a friend had run into Winnie while touring one of those pricey Chinese immersion private schools in L.A., where she’d apparently taught for a spell.

The woman in the doorway caught sight of me. Ava, she cried. She hurried over holding out one arm for a hug, her other weighted down by the duffel-size Birkin. The coffee shop patrons looked up with idle curiosity, probably pegged her for another one of those influencers, and returned to their screens.

I’d dressed carefully, changing out of my usual leggings for pants that zipped, stippling concealer under my eyes. Now, however, I felt as plain as a brown paper bag.

Winnie ordered a double espresso at the counter and toted the doll-size cup and saucer back to the table.

I asked what had brought her to San Francisco, and she said she was here on business—handbag manufacturing, boring stuff. She waved a hand laden with emerald and sapphire eternity bands. To think I’d left my engagement ring at home for fear of appearing too flashy.

Now I know you’re wondering why I called, she said. She explained that a dear friend in China needed a liver transplant and wanted the procedure done in the US. She’d done some research; she knew my husband was a successful transplant surgeon. Might I put her in touch with him? She understood that he was highly regarded in the field.

Again, I hadn’t heard from her in twenty years! Misreading my disbelief, she said, I know, I know, since the election they’ve cracked down on transplants for foreigners, but if your husband could just talk to my friend.

I agreed to speak to Oli. She thanked me profusely and said, Now, Ava, how are you? Tell me everything. It’s been too long.

I ran through the checklist (while she pretended her private investigator hadn’t already filled her in): Olivier, with whom she appeared to be already acquainted, husband of four years, half French, half American; Baby Henri, two years old—did she want to see a picture? Here he was in our backyard, yes, we lived right up the street.

And work?

I gave the stock answer: I’d left my law firm when Henri was born and was now considering going in-house, better work-life balance and all that. As I talked, I parsed her transformation. Eyelid surgery, of course, cutting-edge facials involving lasers and microcurrents, quality hair extensions, designer clothes. But it was more than that. Sitting across from me, sipping from that miniature ceramic cup, Winnie looked comfortable, relaxed; she looked like someone who belonged.

What had she done with the plump, earnest girl who’d entered our dorm room lugging a pair of scuffed hot-pink suitcases, filled, I would learn, with acrylic cardigans and ill-fitting polyester cuffed trousers? Right away, it’d been clear that we could not be friends.

Why, you ask? For all the usual superficial reasons that matter to teenagers. She was awkward, needy, fobby. No, f-o-b-b-y. Fresh off the boat.

Look, I wasn’t cool then, either, but I wasn’t a lost cause. I knew the right friends could buoy me and the wrong kind would sink me, and there was only a small window of time in that first year of college to get it right.

You see, Detective, it felt like I’d waited my whole life to get to Stanford. Growing up outside of Boston—Newton, to be exact, if you know the area—I was one of those quiet, nerdy kids everyone ignored. I mean, the teachers knew me because I had excellent grades, although they constantly confused me with Rosa Chee. She was my friend, along with all the other quiet nerds, but to the rest of the school, to the normal kids, I was invisible.

You want an example? One time my brother was home from college, and we went out for ice cream and ran into Mitch Paulson, his former tennis doubles partner. Gabe and Mitch slap palms, thump shoulders, and I kind of wave. I swear, Mitch’s face goes completely blank. Gabe says, That’s my sister, Ava, she’s a junior, and Mitch says, perfectly pleasantly, Nice to meet you.

Nice to meet you! I’d watched at least a dozen of their matches. I knew who Mitch had dated all through his senior year, and who he’d dated before her. He had no clue who I was.

Stanford was full of kids like me. I had new contact lenses. I’d grown my hair long enough to braid. I was ready to be seen, and if I couldn’t have a blond ponytailed jock roommate, I wasn’t going to let the one I did have get in my way.

In my defense, I tried to be civil to Winnie. I squelched my impatience and answered her countless questions. Mostly basic things, like where to get a student ID and how to figure out her mailbox combination. But she also had this annoying habit of treating me like her pocket dictionary, asking me to define words she didn’t know, and complicated ones, too: doppelgänger, verisimilitude, conceit.

Come to think of it, given that the vast majority of our interactions in college involved her asking for my help, perhaps I shouldn’t have been so taken aback by this, her most recent request, to aid in arranging her friend’s medical care.

Through the course of the afternoon, she disarmed me by commending my life choices, saying things like, It doesn’t surprise me at all that you married someone both brilliant and handsome. And, I’ve always thought that half white, half Asian babies are the absolute cutest. And, Of all the girls at school, you’re the one I envied most. Basking in her flattery, I failed to notice that she’d had me pegged from the start, while I’d completely misjudged her.

Winnie was feigning interest in the story of how Oli and I had met when an unmistakable cry pierced the air. I turned, along with Winnie and the other patrons. There, lying flat on his back on the sidewalk outside, his face a red ball of rage, was my Henri. Crouched beside him was Maria, bless her heart, talking quietly, a look of calm determination in her eyes.

For a split second, I considered claiming ignorance. (And before you accuse me of being heartless, Detective, you must understand that back then, the tantrums were never-ending.) At the next table over, two men in stylish glasses exchanged smirks, and I snapped out of it, explained to Winnie that the shrieking child was my son, and rushed out the door.

What happened? I asked Maria. I bent down to still my son’s wildly kicking legs. He cracked open one eye, saw it was me, and went right on wailing.

Maria sighed. Nothing, the usual, poor thing.

I stroked Henri’s sweat-matted hair. Oh, Cookie, what’s wrong? Tell Mama what’s wrong.

But he couldn’t tell me, and that was the root of the problem. Even at the age of two, he was deeply thoughtful, profoundly empathetic. More than anything he yearned to convey the feelings he had no language to describe, and who among us wouldn’t find that frustrating? And so he erupted for the most innocuous reasons: being put in his stroller, being taken out of his stroller, having his hand grabbed before crossing the street, being toweled off after his bath. Anything could set him off. Those first few years, he cried so much, his voice was perpetually hoarse. Oh, but listen to me, going on and on about my happy, healthy kid. He’s doing so much better now, even if he still sounds like a mini Rod Stewart. It’s rather endearing, really.

That afternoon, however, my son went right on shrieking as Maria and I cycled through our repertoire of tricks, stroking his tummy, rubbing his scalp, tickling his forearms, pinning his ankles together. A woman walking a golden retriever clucked sympathetically at us. A nanny ordered a pair of twin boys to stop staring.

The only thing to do was to hunker down and wait it out, Maria and I making loud soothing sounds like a couple of white-noise machines. After a long while, Henri tired. His kicking grew less frantic; the muscles in his face slackened. I reached out and tickled his belly, which was sometimes enough to get him to relinquish the last of his rage. Not this time. The instant my finger poked his soft tummy, his jaw dropped, releasing a neck-pinching scream. The crying started up again at full force. I fell back on my haunches, exhausted, ready to tell Maria to peel him off the sidewalk and drag him home.

From behind me, a low, warm voice sang a Chinese children’s song. Liang zhi lao hu, liang zhi lao hu, pao de kuai, pao de kuai.

I whirled around to find Winnie standing there bent over with her hands on her knees, singing intently about a pair of tigers, one without eyes and one without a tail. Zhen qi guai, zhen qi guai. I recognized the tune from the after-school Chinese classes of my youth.

Abruptly the crying stopped. Without breaking song, Winnie unclipped a gray fur charm dangling from the handle of her Birkin.

I blurted, Don’t give it to him, you’ll never get it back.

But she held the furry ball out to Henri in the palm of her hand.

I hope that’s not real mink, I warned.

Henri seized the ball and squealed with delight. A thick rope of drool landed on the soft fur.

Oh dear, I said.

Winnie laughed and patted Henri’s head, and he purred sweetly.

This is Auntie Winnie, I told him. Can you say thank you?

He rubbed the mink across his saliva-soaked lips.

I explained to Winnie that although he understood everything, he didn’t yet speak, and Oli attributed the slight delay to his being bilingual.

Smart boy, said Winnie.

I was too embarrassed to go back inside the coffee shop, so when Maria managed to strap Henri into his stroller without incident, I suggested we head home.

There, Winnie settled at the grand piano and played “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” singing to Henri in Mandarin—yi shan yi shan liang jing jing—teaching him to make blinking stars with his plump little paws.

The backs of my eyes began to smart. At that point my mom had only been gone six months. She was the one who was supposed to teach Henri Chinese. She was supposed to rub my back and tell me it was normal to be so tired I nodded off while brushing my teeth. She was supposed to talk me out of putting Henri on a strict diet of elk and venison because I was convinced the hormones and antibiotics were to blame.

Winnie saw the tear winding down my cheek and lifted her hands from the keyboard.

What’s wrong, Ava?

Henri tugged on his earlobe, signaling growing agitation.

Nothing. Keep playing.

She dropped her hands to her lap. Henri’s wail started as a low, chesty rumble and then gained force, rising through the scale to full police siren.

Maria, I called.

She darted out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans, scooped up Henri, and hefted him to his bedroom.

I grabbed a tissue and dabbed my cheeks. Oli says it’s a phase.

Sure, Winnie said. All babies are like that.

I didn’t want her to think I was despairing over my son, so I told her about my mom’s passing.

She clamped a hand over her mouth. She remembered my mom from when she’d visited Stanford all those years ago.

Oh, Ava, I’m so sorry. She must have been such a good grandma to Henri.

I told her that for the first three months, she, Henri, and I had shared a room. She woke for every feeding, changed countless diapers, promised me that someday he’d stop crying. She’d dropped dead—there was no other way to describe it—while jogging on her basement treadmill. Sudden cardiac arrest. Sixty-nine years old, thin as a whippet, rarely ever so much as caught a cold.

From the back of the house, my son’s wails softened into jagged sobs. Winnie’s mink charm lay gray and soggy on the carpet like an offering from a housecat. When I bent over to retrieve it, I caught the word FENDI embossed on the metal clip.

Oh, shit, I said.

Don’t worry about it. Keep it as a toy for Henri.

Once she was gone, I searched for the bag charm online so I could buy her a replacement. Guess how much it cost? Six hundred bucks. Obviously I didn’t go through with it. The next time Henri had an episode, I whipped out the mangled mink ball and dangled it in his face. He grew incensed, flung it away, and went right on screaming.

 

After that, Winnie would let me know whenever she came to San Francisco from L.A. Her work, she said, regularly brought her here, so she often stayed at the St. Regis downtown. I was impressed. The last time I’d checked, rooms there went for seven hundred a night.

Given all I’ve said so far, you must be wondering why I so willingly befriended her this time around. I’ll admit that at first, I was dazzled by her wealth and beauty, her extreme confidence. I suppose a part of me was still stuck in freshman year, clinging to friends like life rafts.

But there was a deeper reason, too. The truth is, no one else, besides my mother, could calm Henri, and I was desperate. My son was still waking up every three or so hours, which meant it’d been two years and counting since I’d had a full night’s sleep. Days I spent staring at my laptop screen, researching special diets to quell tantrums, while stalwart Maria wheeled Henri from story time to music class to the park. In fact, the week that Winnie called, I’d had eight pounds of bison shipped from Wisconsin, all of it hidden in a secret freezer in the garage storage room because Oli held a particular contempt for nutrition pseudoscience. And rightly so! I think we can all agree my behavior was unhinged.

Oh, and speaking of Oli, did I mention that this was right when he’d left UCSF for Stanford? A stellar career move, to be sure, but one that involved a nightmare commute on top of an already endless workday, which meant he never made it home in time to put Henri to bed.

So, like any overwhelmed new mom, I was grateful for Winnie’s help.

Oli was glad to hear that Henri had taken to my old roommate, but was, like you, surprised at the extent to which I’d welcomed her into our lives. After all, the only thing I’d told him about Winnie was the infamous SAT scandal. I assume you’ve already been briefed?

No? Not at all? I see. I suppose that makes sense. I don’t believe Stanford was officially implicated that time around.

This was back in the year 2000, and the whole thing was not unlike the recent incident with all those Hollywood bigwigs falsifying credentials and test results to get their kids into top schools, except, in this case, the perpetrators were Chinese nationals. According to the press, US law enforcement had uncovered a Beijing company that hired expert US-based test-taking proxies—Chinese grad students, mostly—armed them with fake passports, and sent them to sit for the SATs in place of wealthy, connected Chinese college applicants. Law enforcement seized company records and released their findings, and universitiesresponded swiftly. Three Chinese students were expelled from Harvard, one from Yale, two from MIT, a handful of others from Penn and Columbia and Cornell. And you can bet that no one was writing op-eds in defense of these kids, portraying them as innocent victims who shouldn’t be held responsible for their parents’ crimes. No, when it came to foreign students, the universal rallying cry was to get those no-good Chinese cheaters out of our schools!

I remember standing by the fountain in White Plaza with kids from my humanities seminar, poring over fresh copies of the Stanford Daily. I returned to my room to find Winnie in tears, haphazardly chucking sweaters and T-shirts into her pink suitcases. She told me her father had a stroke. She was boarding a plane that night, never mind that finals started next week. I told her how sorry I was and folded my copy of the Daily into a tight square.

Did you tell your adviser? I asked. I was sure they’d let her make up exams.

She gathered an armload of socks and said, ...