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When I reached Hermès, I decided to go in on the pretense of actually intending to buy something. It was a device I used occasionally to check out shops that were way beyond my price range. I considered it my duty as a reporter to observe how the Other Half lives so that, when the occasion arose, I could report on their lives with accuracy.

“I’d like to know the price of the gray snakeskin bag in the window,” I said to the formidable-looking saleswoman standing guard over the locked-up Hermès handbags. She looked me over, always a decisive moment between clerk and client in shops such as this. But I had taken care to dress for just such a situation, in what I liked to think of as my “I’m so wealthy I don’t have to wear clothes that scream MONEY” outfit: a ten-year-old pale gray silk suit, pearls, and a soft, pleated-leather Fendi handbag I’d bought secondhand at a Paris thrift shop.

I stood my ground. The moment passed. Or more precisely, I passed the moment.

“Ah, yes, one of our most popular items,” she said, unlocking the case to remove a bag similar to the one in the window. “It comes in a variety of leathers and colors. But I must warn you, there is a waiting list for some of the bags.”

I asked the price. She told me they ranged anywhere from £1,200 pounds to £5,000. I made a mental effort to convert £1,200 pounds into dollars. Eight hundred dollars? Eighteen hundred dollars? Either way, I wasn’t walking out of the shop with any bag other than the one I came in with. After telling the saleswoman I needed the bag immediately so a waiting list would not suit, I thanked her and left. Outside I headed for a store where I planned to do some real shopping: the Safeway supermarket on the King’s Road.

I had taken a flat in nearby Chelsea, a few blocks from the King’s Road and Sloane Square. Although I’d been told of a charming “villagelike” shopping area just minutes from the flat, I knew there were cheaper supermarkets dotting the King’s Road. I even had a specific market in mind.

Actually, I knew the neighborhood around my flat quite well. Twenty-five years earlier, along with my husband and our two-year-old son, I had lived in an apartment on the other side of Sloane Square. My mother had joined us for a time, renting a separate apartment in the same house, making it very much a family affair.

By the time I neared the square at the bottom of Sloane Street, a light rain was falling. All along the street umbrellas began unfurling, their bright colors dotting the gray day like flowers in an urban meadow. At the corner I spotted a familiar sign: THE GENERAL TRADING COMPANY, EST. 1920. I remembered this shop well. It was filled with sumptuous English-country-house furniture and floors brimming with fancy culinary equipment and antique silver. When we lived nearby I had spent many rainy afternoons there poking through rooms of antique tables and expensive bed linens. I also remembered it had a delightful café. On a whim I decided to go in, look around, and have lunch.

After a quick tour through the gift department, I headed downstairs to the small café on the ground floor. At the café entrance a line had formed; about a dozen women stood waiting to be seated by the hostess. This could take a long time, I thought, trying to decide whether or not to wait.

Suddenly the hostess’s voice called out: “Anyone single?”

Caught off guard, the question puzzled me: I was uncertain whether this meant single as in not being married, or single as in dining alone. However, since I fit into both categories, I raised my hand with confidence. “Would you mind sharing a table?” the hostess asked. “Not at all,” I said, following her into the café.

She led me to a table where three women were seated. Two of them seemed to be together; they were engrossed in conversation and barely looked up. The third woman, seemingly a “single” like me, was sitting with a book, waiting to be served her lunch. I looked at the menu, ordered lasagna and salad, and, feeling uncertain about the proper etiquette