During the summer holidays, tour groups pour into Oxford like waves, typically consisting of a couple and their ten-year-old child. The wives are impeccably groomed and dressed like socialites, wearing sold-out shades of lipstick and carrying Hermès bags, or at the very least, limited edition Louis Vuitton bags—the standard editions just don't make the cut. The husbands sport understated navy blue polo shirts, avoiding suits to escape being labeled as nouveau riche. They ignore the glaring time display on their phones, instead glancing at their Vacheron Constantin watches every ten minutes, ensuring everyone notices their prestigious timepieces. The children are dressed in mini suits, with boys in bow ties and girls in pleated skirts, looking like little gentlemen and ladies. They chirp like birds, in stark contrast to the reserved demeanor of the adults, filling the entire city of Oxford with their lively presence.

　　The tour guides aren’t locals. The Chinese tour group is led by a girl with long black hair and almond-shaped eyes, the Indian group by a young man with light brown skin, and the Arab group by someone with slightly curly hair. It's clear they’re college students doing summer jobs hired by the travel agencies. The July sun is merciless, and the sweat-drenched tour guides lead their weary groups around Oxford University’s iconic sites, snapping photos at every landmark. They know each photo spot by heart, expertly advising on the best angles and poses for the most flattering shots. They take pictures for the tourists in an assembly line fashion, their movements practiced and efficient but their expressions blank.

　　By midday, the tour guides eagerly herded the groups into Oxford's priciest restaurants. These spots, reserved exclusively for the tour groups, boasted luxurious British decor. The children, unimpressed by the aristocratic ambiance, bluntly declared, "The food here is awful!" The adults, however, would never admit such a thing. They knew they were there for status, class, and prestige, not the food. When they saw a 15% service charge added to the bill, not one of them objected. Some didn't even glance at the bill before swiping their cards, silently competing with other families in the group. They scrutinized each other's attire and the ease with which they paid, trying to gauge the economic differences between them. They couldn’t afford to be petty like market stall commoners, risking ridicule. Even if they knew they were being overcharged, they would rather play the fool to the end.

　　These people spare no expense on education, firmly believing that knowledge changes fate, as their own lives are a testament to that truth. They fear stagnation, the possibility of slipping down a class; they also hope to leap up and perhaps join the upper echelons of society. This anxiety stems from their potential for upward or downward mobility, knowing it’s easier to fall than to rise. They are the first generation to become wealthy after the economic reforms, often overstating the importance of personal effort while downplaying the advantages of living through a booming economy. They refuse to acknowledge the multiplied value of their hard work due to the fortunate timing of rapid economic growth. The phrase "let some people get rich first, and they will help others get rich" is an insincere promise. In reality, their actions are quite the opposite. They lack empathy for the less fortunate, abandoning those still struggling once they've climbed out of the lower class. They rewrite the rules, build high walls, and devise ways to block new entrants to their circle. They are keenly aware that the window for social mobility is closing. Once classes become entrenched, personal effort will pale in comparison to inherited wealth. Their children thus become tools to solidify their social standing and prevent resource redistribution. They aim to mold their children into replicas of themselves, steering them onto a fail-safe path—if I, the father, could move from a small town to a big city, then you, my child, must move from China to a prestigious foreign country.

　　Their ultimate goal is to turn ten million into a billion, then ten billion, eventually securing foreign citizenship for the whole family and transferring their fortune abroad. The Oxford tour ends in half a day, with all the must-see spots photographed. Looking back, they find the colleges and buildings, the streets and landmarks all look like twins. They don't really grasp what they or their children have learned, but they won't quiz their kids about what they learned today, fearing their own ignorance would be exposed first.

　　By the afternoon, the tour groups vanished as quickly as they had arrived, swept away to the nearby outlet village near Oxford. In the shopping village, restraint is useless. Here, it's all about speed and agility, and people wish they could grow extra arms to grab more items. The sales assistants, international students temporarily hired by luxury stores, speak multiple languages, with Chinese speakers being the most sought after. This time, it's the adults who are chirping away, while the kids sit uniformly in fast food joints, gnawing on chicken legs because they didn't get enough to eat in Oxford.

　　The sales assistants rely on these three afternoon hours to boost their performance, each one beaming with energy—a stark contrast to the expressionless tour guides from the morning. The adults don’t care if the clothes, shoes, or bags suit them—they just grab whatever they can. If something doesn’t fit, it will make a fine gift for friends and family back home. The checkered trench coats, the epitome of British style, are very particular about the wearer, making the unfashionable look even more so. But nobody cares; they just grab a couple of them as if they were free because having items from Brand B is an unspoken proof of having visited the UK.

　　In the outlet village, if they don’t return with armfuls of discounted designer goods, how can they justify the morning spent playing the fool? Despite their attempts to distinguish themselves, the Chinese first-generation middle class are essentially a group with some money, worried that it won’t last to maintain their dignified lives. Deep down, they want more money but won’t admit it, always portraying themselves as wealthier than they are, lacking a sense of security.

　　They are like fish in a stormy sea, each desperately trying to secure the best position, only to find themselves trapped within the very barriers they created, unable to step beyond an invisible boundary.

　　The marketing geniuses who design overseas study tours are the real winners. They’ve tapped into the middle class psyche, mastering the art of business by selling feelings of superiority and anxiety, making people willingly part with their money.

　　This summer is rough for John. The affordable college cafeteria is closed, and overpriced, terrible restaurants have popped up all over Oxford. John applied for a postdoc position at Merton College, but there were no suitable positions. Determined to stay, he had to work unpaid.

　　Mrs. Huntington, trying to convince John to return, cut off his credit card. Without savings and accustomed to spending freely, John found himself in yet another financial crisis.

　　Liyan thought she was the cause of the tension between John and his mother, but with past experience, she dared not try to mediate.

　　“It’s time for lunch,” Liyan said, taking two lunch boxes out of her bag and handing the bigger one to John.

　　John’s eyes lit up as he stared at the lunch box. “You’re so thoughtful.”

　　The main dish was spaghetti Bolognese, and John’s box had an extra fried egg with a smiley face drawn in salad. The vegetable salad mixed with lemon vinaigrette was tangy and appetizing. Despite the simple ingredients, John finished it in no time. “Let me guess what we’re having tomorrow. How about Chinese food?”

　　“You're really pushing your luck, aren’t you? So shameless,” Liyan retorted with a playful disdain.

　　Since that day, Liyan brought two lunches every day. John used to dread lunchtime, but now he looked forward to it. Every time he watched Liyan take out her creatively prepared lunch boxes, it was like watching a magician pull tricks from a hat. Magic couldn’t compete with lunch—it filled the stomach!

　　It was supermarket discount day again. Due to road construction and a rerouted bus, they couldn't get to their usual big supermarket. As they were worrying, Anna suggested that John drive them there.

　　After leaving the city center, the scenery changed dramatically. The roads became potholed, single-family homes were replaced by row houses, and the row houses gave way to illegal constructions made of colorful steel plates. The once fresh air turned foul, a mix of coal smoke and diesel fumes. Brightly colored clothes hung outside, fluttering like international flags—residents here couldn't afford dryers. John recalled his mother warning him when he was a child that the northeastern part of Oxfordshire was an area for Indians, Pakistanis, and refugees—common folks lived there, and people of status shouldn't go there.

　　After an hour of driving, they finally arrived at the largest ASDA superstore on the outskirts of Oxfordshire. Anna and Liyan each grabbed a shopping cart while John stood by, doing nothing.

　　“Why don't you get a cart? Aren't you going to buy anything?” Liyan asked John, who was standing by idly.

　　“Aren't two carts enough? How much are you planning to buy?” John asked, confused.

　　“Today’s the once-a-month discount day. Lots of things are on sale!” Liyan emphasized.

　　The supermarket was bustling with activity, with many families shopping together. You can tell the class of a Chinese person by their clothes and of an English person by their physique. English people shop at stores that match their social status: the upper class goes to high-end stores, eats organic food, exercises regularly, and generally looks fit and energetic. The lower class, constantly struggling to make ends meet, can only afford fried chicken and chips, lacking the time and energy to exercise or watch their diet, often resulting in obesity. The people in this supermarket were mostly of the latter type, with nearly everyone’s cart filled with cheap white bread, nearing-expiry eggs, vegetables, and bottled water. John had never seen this side of Oxford; he only knew the tranquil, picturesque Oxford. Even during the busy tourist season, the visitors were mostly well-dressed and polite, sitting in upscale restaurants, calmly perusing overpriced menus. But here, the shoppers stared intently at the “price per kilogram” labels, and unsurprisingly, most chose the cheapest option available. Two women even got into a physical fight over the last heavily discounted pack of toilet paper. One had her T-shirt collar torn, exposing her chest, while the other had clumps of hair yanked out. Even after being separated by security, the victorious fat woman wasn’t satisfied. She flipped the other woman off, ready for round two.

　　John never stockpiled groceries. With several high-end supermarkets in Oxford city center, he usually bought fresh ingredients on his way home or dined at upscale restaurants before heading back. He didn’t understand why Liyan and Anna went out of their way to this dreadful supermarket. He wanted to leave as soon as possible, but Liyan and Anna seemed perfectly at home, even enjoying themselves.

　　“I’m going to grab some pasta. If I wait any longer, it’ll all be gone. Liyan, do you need any?” Anna asked.

　　“Get me seven boxes; that’ll be perfect for the week.”

　　Anna nodded and hurried off to the pasta aisle.

　　Liyan turned to John. “Let’s check out the other stuff.”

　　Liyan bought nearly expired salad, milk, a bag of Chinese rice, and shampoo. Anna, having finished her shopping, had various types of pasta in her cart—cooked, half-cooked, curly, round, long strips, and even a few pots of green herbs.

　　John teased Anna, “You’ve got time to spare, growing plants and flowers?”

　　Anna explained, “These are rosemary, basil, and mint. You tear off a few leaves and add them to your pasta for flavor. Growing your own herbs saves you from buying seasonings.”

　　John helped them load the groceries into the car’s trunk. Seeing Liyan and Anna so pleased, John found it amusing. “Do you come here on the 25th of every month?”

　　“If it doesn’t conflict with work, we do. Missing discount day means our monthly expenses go up by 40 pounds,” Liyan calculated seriously.

　　John marveled at Liyan and Anna’s frugality. Feeling a bit guilty for making John their chauffeur and porter for half the day, Liyan decided to cook him a meal as a thank you. Because of Anna’s apartment rules, John had only ever dropped Liyan off at the entrance before. Now invited to dinner, he could save on a meal and get a peek inside Liyan’s living quarters—an opportunity he didn’t want to miss, especially with his own little agenda in mind.

　　The apartment complex mostly housed international students, visiting scholars, and university lecturers still awaiting tenure. It was essentially an unofficial dorm for older students, more cramped and shabby compared to Oxford’s freshman dorms but with the advantage of low rent and freedom of entry. It was also just a ten-minute walk from Merton College, saving the need for a car.

　　Liyan and Anna’s unit was on the top floor, a one-bedroom layout. The dining room and kitchen were connected by a small table, making the space feel tight. Liyan and Anna shared a bedroom, a narrow rectangular space of about twenty square meters. Their desks, single beds, and wardrobes were lined up along the walls, mirroring each other with identical furniture. The decor was typical of a student apartment—simple and modest. Besides using their suitcases as extra storage due to limited space, the room was generally clean, cozy, and well-lit.

　　Liyan prepared a home-cooked Chinese meal with tomato and egg stir-fry, sautéed greens, stir-fried pork with green peppers, and rib soup, accompanied by steamed white rice.

　　John ate three bowls of rice. “This is way better than any restaurant.”

　　“She’s better at Italian dishes than I am now. John, you’re in for a treat,” Anna teased.

　　Liyan blushed at Anna’s teasing.

　　John seized the moment. “I’d love to enjoy more meals like this. How about I come over for dinner every night?”

　　Liyan: “No way!”

　　Anna (simultaneously): “Sure.”

　　“I’m thinking of moving out of my current apartment. The rent’s too high, and the nearby restaurants are expensive. I’d like to find a place around here.”

　　“Can you stand these cramped, creaky apartments that smell musty in the rainy season?”

　　“If you can stand it, why can’t I?”

　　Liyan thought John was just being impulsive and didn’t take him seriously. But a week later, John moved out of his high-end apartment and rented a similar unit in their neighborhood.

　　Without the burden of high rent, John’s financial pressure eased. Though times were still tight, sharing the experience with Liyan made the hard days more bearable than he had imagined.

　　“Madam, John hasn’t been home in quite a while.”

　　“He’s making a stand against me,” Mrs. Huntington said, her brow furrowed. “Mrs. Williams mentioned that John moved out of his upscale apartment.”

　　“I ran into John in Oxford yesterday while I was out and about. He’s even swapped his car for a used Opel.”

　　“Looks like he’s set on defying me this time.”

　　“I believe John will come around. He was so rebellious when he was younger, but didn’t he eventually follow your plans? Just give him a little encouragement and a way out,” Nanny suggested to Mrs. Huntington.

　　“No amount of coaxing will work. Things have changed. He now has a 'comrade in arms'—two people united against a common adversary are far stronger than one alone.” Not only did John refuse to return, but he also moved closer to Shen Liyan. The strategies that once worked on her son were now backfiring. Mrs. Huntington regretted acting rashly without fully understanding Shen Liyan.

　　The archaeology department finally began recruiting postdocs. After much perseverance, John landed the position he had been hoping for. With the postdoc at Merton College, he would earn a stipend of £1,050 a month.

　　“I can finally afford the rent!” John said, beaming with pride. “Liyan, let’s celebrate my new postdoc position tonight and splurge a little.”

　　“You haven’t even received the money yet, and you’re already thinking about splurging?”

　　“I’ve been pinching pennies for four months.”

　　“If you had been a bit more frugal earlier, you wouldn’t have struggled to pay the rent.”

　　“But I have you, right? You wouldn’t just leave me in the lurch,” John replied with a smirk.

　　“Don’t you know you should plan for the future?”

　　“You really don’t know how to enjoy life. Live in the moment!”