You recount the exchange.
It is as though Thomas’s deep voice is reverberating through the office, mingling with your higher tones. When you spoke, did he notice the rounded cupid’s bow on your upper lip? The smoky sweep of your eyelashes?
A slight ache forms in my hand. My grasp on the pen is eased.
The next question must be chosen with exquisite care.
“And then did your conversation with him continue?”
“Yeah, he was nice.”
A brief, involuntary smile alights on your face. The memory now gripping you is a pleasurable one.
“He came up to me a minute later when I was looking at the next photograph.”
There were only two possible outcomes in this scenario. The first was that Thomas would pay no attention to you. The second, that he would.
Although the latter was repeatedly envisioned, its power is nevertheless devastating.
Thomas, with his sandy hair and the smile that starts in his eyes, the one that promises everything will be okay, could not resist you.
Our marriage dwelled within a lie; it was built on a foundation of quicksand.
The swelling rage and deep disappointment do not reveal themselves. Not yet.
You continue to describe the conversation about the reflection of the rider in the motorcycle mirror. You are stopped when you begin to detail how the alarm on your phone sounded.
You are jumping ahead to your exit from the museum. You must be led backward, to the room where you and Thomas met.
The question has to be asked, even though it seems a foregone conclusion that Thomas found you attractive, that he sought a way to prolong your contact.
You have been trained to be honest in this space. Your foundational sessions have led us to this pivotal moment.
“The sandy-haired man . . . Would you—”
You are shaking your head.
“Huh?” you interject. “You mean the man I was talking to about the photographs?”
It is imperative that any confusion be eliminated.
“Yes,” you are told. “The one in the bomber jacket.”
Your expression grows perplexed. You shake your head again.
Your next words send the room spinning.
Something has gone deeply wrong.
“His hair wasn’t light,” you say. “It was dark brown. Almost black, really.”
You never met Thomas at the museum. The man you encountered was someone else entirely.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
Friday, December 14
On the surface, it’s business as usual: the Germ-X, the Altoids, my arrival five minutes before the appointed time.
It’s Friday night, and I have two clients left before I wrap up work. But neither of these appointments was scheduled by BeautyBuzz.
These are women Dr. Shields has selected, as part of her study.
When I went to her office yesterday after the museum, Dr. Shields seemed a little confused about my conversation with the guy in the bomber jacket. Then she excused herself to go the ladies’ room. When she came back a few minutes later, I tried to tell her about the rest of my visit, how I put more money in the collection box and saw no sign of the accident when I left the exhibit.
But Dr. Shields cut me off; she only wanted to focus on this new experiment.
She explained again that these women had been subjects in an earlier morality survey and had signed a waiver agreeing to a broad range of possible follow-up trials. But they don’t know why I’m really going to show up at their homes.
At least I do, or I think I do. This is the first time I’ve been told what is being evaluated before I go into an experiment.
I’m relieved I’m not going in blind, but it still feels strange. Maybe that’s because the stakes seem so small. Dr. Shields wants to know if these clients will tip me more generously since the service is free. I’m to collect some basic demographic data on them—their ages, their marital status, their occupations—for her to include when she writes a paper on her research, or whatever it is she’s using the information for.
I wonder why she needs me to confirm these details. Wouldn’t she or her assistant, Ben, have gotten it prior to letting them into the study, like they did with me?
Before I enter the Chelsea apartment building and take the elevator to the twelfth floor, I reach into my pocket for my phone.
Dr. Shields has stressed the importance of one more instruction.
I press the button to dial her number.
The call is connected.
“Hi, I’m about to go in,” I say.
“I’m going to mute myself now, Jessica,” she says.
A moment later I don’t hear anything, not even her breathing.
I press Speaker.
When Reyna opens the door to her apartment, my first thought is that she is pretty much what I expected when I envisioned the other women in Dr. Shields’s study: early thirties, with shiny dark hair in a blunt cut at her collarbone. Her apartment is furnished with an artistic flair—a giant, swirling stack of books serves as an end table, the walls are a rich maroon, and a funky menorah that looks like an antique rests on the windowsill.
For the next forty-five minutes, I try to weave all the questions Dr. Shields needs me to ask. I learn Reyna is thirty-four, originally from Austin, and that she’s a jewelry designer. She points to a few of the pieces she is wearing as I select a dove-gray eyeshadow, including the eternity ring she designed for her wedding to her partner.
“Eleanor and I have matching ones,” she says. She’d already told me that they’re attending a friend’s thirty-fifth birthday party tonight.
Reyna is so easy to talk to I almost forget this isn’t one of my usual jobs.
We chat a little more, then she goes to check her reflection in a mirror.
When she comes back, she hands me two twenties. “I can’t believe I won this,” she says. “Which company do you work for again?”
I hesitate. “One of the big ones, but I’ve been thinking about going freelance.”
“I’ll definitely call you again,” Reyna says. “I still have your number.”
But that number is to the phone Dr. Shields had me use. I just smile and pack up quickly. When I’m back on the sidewalk, I immediately take Dr. Shields off speakerphone and put my cell phone to my ear.
“She gave me forty dollars,” I say. “Most clients only tip ten.”
“Wonderful,” Dr. Shields says. “How long until you’re at the next appointment?”
I check the address. It’s just a quick cab ride up the West Side Highway.
“It’s in Hell’s Kitchen,” I say. I’m shivering; the temperature has plummeted in the past hour. “So I should be there by around seven-thirty.”
“Perfect,” she says. “Call me when you arrive.”
The second woman is unlike any other client I’ve worked on. It’s hard to imagine how she would have gotten into Dr. Shields’s study.
Tiffani has bleached blond hair and is rail thin, but not like the fancy Upper East Side moms.
She starts chattering the minute I wheel my case into her tiny entryway. It’s a studio with a minuscule kitchen and a couch pulled out into a bed. Bottles of liquor line the kitchen cabinet and the sink is full of dirty dishes. The television is blaring. I glance over and see Jimmy Stewart on the screen in It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s the only sign of the holidays in this dark, dreary apartment.
“I’ve never won anything!” Tiffani says. Her voice is high and almost shrill. “Not even a stuffed animal at the fair!”
I’m about to ask about her plans for the night when another voice comes from the rumpled covers on the sofa bed: “I fucking love this movie!”
I start, then look over to see a guy lounging against the cushions.
Tiffani follows my gaze: “My boyfriend,” she says, but she doesn’t introduce me. The guy doesn’t even look over, and the blue light from the screen that washes over his face blurs h
is features.
“Going anywhere special tonight?” I ask.
“I’m not sure, maybe a bar,” Tiffani says.
I open my case on the floor; there’s nowhere to spread out. Already I know I don’t want to spend any longer here than I need to.
“Can we turn on a light?” I ask Tiffani.
She reaches for a switch and her boyfriend reacts instantly, throwing a hand over his eyes. I catch a glimpse of sharp limbs and a tattoo sleeve. “Can’t you guys do that in the bathroom?”
“There’s no space,” Tiffani says.
He exhales. “Fine.”
I set my phone on the top shelf of my case, making sure the screen is facedown. I wonder how much of this Dr. Shields can hear.
Tiffani drags over a brown packing box and sits on it. I notice a couple others stacked against the wall.
As I examine her skin I realize Tiffani is older than she first appeared: Her complexion is sallow, and her teeth have a grayish tint.
“We just moved here,” she says. Her sentences tip up like questions at the end. “From Detroit.”
I begin to blend an ivory foundation on my hand. She’s so pale I need to use my lightest shade.
“What brought you to New York?” I ask. I know her marital status, now I just need to get her occupation and age.
Tiffani glances at her boyfriend. He still seems immersed in the movie. “Just some work stuff for Ricky,” she says.
But clearly he’s been listening to us because he calls out: “You girls sure are chatty.”
“Sorry,” Tiffani says. Then, more quietly, she continues: “Your job seems really fun. How did you get it?”
I lean over and begin to dab foundation onto her skin. That’s when I see the faint purple bruise on her temple. It was hidden by her hair when she answered the door.
My hand pauses.
“Ouch, what happened here?” I ask.
She stiffens. “I hit it on a cabinet door when I was unpacking.” For the first time, her tone is flat.
Ricky mutes the television, then peels himself from the sofa and saunters to the refrigerator. His feet are bare and he’s wearing saggy jeans and a faded T-shirt.
He pulls out a Pabst and pops the top.
“How’d she win this, anyway?” he asks. He’s only three feet away, directly under the fluorescent light. I can now see him clearly: His choppy, dirty-blond hair and sallow skin nearly match Tiffani’s, but her eyes are light blue and his are nearly black.
Then I realize his pupils are so dilated they’ve crowded out the irises.
I instinctively look toward my phone, then drag my gaze back to him. “My boss arranged it,” I say. “I think it’s a free promotion to spread the word about her company.”
I grab an eye pencil, not caring if it’s the right shade.
“Close, please,” I instruct Tiffani.
Three loud cracks erupt to the right of me.
I whip my head around. Ricky is rolling his neck from side to side. But his eyes stay fixed on me as he does it.
“So you just go around giving people free makeup?” he says. “What’s the catch?”
Tiffani pipes up: “Ricky, she’s almost done. I didn’t give her a credit card or anything. Just watch your movie and then we can go out.”
But Ricky doesn’t move. He keeps staring at me.
I need to get one more piece of information, then I’m going to finish as fast as I can and leave.
“For women like you, who are under twenty-five, I prefer a creamy blush,” I say, reaching into my case. The blush is on the top shelf, next to my phone.
I begin to blend it on Tiffani’s cheek. My fingers are unsteady but still I try to make sure my touch is gentle in case the area by her bruise is tender.
Ricky moves a step closer. “How do you know she’s under twenty-five?”
I look at my phone again. “Just guessing,” I say. He smells like old sweat and cigarette smoke and something else I can’t identify.
“What, you’re trying to sell her this stuff?” he says.
“No, of course not,” I say.
“Seems weird you picked her. We just moved here two weeks ago. How’d you get her number?”
My hand slips, smudging the blush down Tiffani’s cheek.
“I don’t—I mean, my boss just gave it to me,” I say.
Two weeks, I think. And they moved all the way from Detroit.
There’s no way Tiffani could be part of Dr. shields’s study.
I don’t even realize that I’ve stopped working on Tiffani and am staring at my phone until I see a sudden movement out of the corner of my eye.
Ricky lunges forward. I twist out of the way, a scream rising in my throat.
Tiffani is frozen. “Ricky, don’t!”
Instinctively I cower down on the floor. But it isn’t me he’s trying to grab.
It’s my phone.
He snatches it up and flips it to see the screen.
“It’s just my boss—” I start to blurt.
Ricky looks at me. “Are you a fucking narc?”
“What?”
“Nothing’s ever free in life,” he says.
I wait to hear Dr. Shields’s voice come over the speakerphone. BeautyBuzz has safeguards in place to protect us workers; they require a credit card and say we are authorized to leave immediately if something doesn’t seem right.
All I have is Dr. Shields. She’ll fix this; she’ll explain everything.
I crane my neck up to look at the phone, but Ricky pulls it out of my line of vision.
“Why do you keep staring at this?” Ricky asks. Then he slowly turns around the phone, holding it up.
The screen shows nothing but my home screen photo of Leo.
Dr. Shields has hung up.
I’m on my own.
I’m crouched on the floor, with no way to protect myself.
“My boyfriend is picking me up, so I wanted to make sure to see his call come in,” I lie, my voice high and frantic. “He should be here any second now.”
Slowly I stand up, as if I’m trying to avoid antagonizing a wild animal.
Ricky doesn’t move, but I feel as though he could explode at any second.
“I’m sorry I upset you,” I say. “I can wait outside.”
Ricky’s eyes lock onto mine. His hand closes like a fist over my phone.
“There’s something off about you,” he says.
I shake my head. “I promise, I’m just a makeup artist.”
He stares at me for another long moment.
Then he tosses my phone into the air and I scramble to catch it.
“Take your fucking phone,” he says. “I’m going back to my movie.”
I don’t exhale until he’s back on the sofa.
“I’m sorry,” Tiffani whispers.
I want to reach into my case and extract one of my cards and give it to her. I want to tell her to call me if she ever needs help.
But Ricky is too close. His awareness of me is like a force in the room.
I grab a few lip glosses out of my case and hand them to Tiffani. “Keep these,” I say.
I shove my things back into my case and shut it, then I stand up. My legs feel weak. I hurry to the door, imagining Ricky’s eyes searing into my back. By the time I reach the stairwell, I’m running, my arm straining with the effort of holding up my heavy case.
After I’m in the back of an Uber, I check my phone log.
I can’t believe it. Dr. Shields hung up after only six minutes.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
Friday, December 14
Your voice is surprisingly agitated when you telephone following your encounter with the second woman: “How could you have hung up on me? That guy was bad news!”
Therapists are trained to set aside their own turbulent emotions and focus on their clients. This can be quite challenging, especially when unspoken questions vie with yours, Jessica: What is Thomas doing tonight? Is he alone
?
But you must be appeased swiftly.
There could be any number of reasons why these two women called my husband—therapy, for example. In any case, they have been eliminated as potential paramours; Reyna is a married lesbian, and Tiffani relocated here only weeks ago.
The other possible avenues leading to information are closing up. This heightens the urgency of your participation.
Everything depends upon you now.
You must be managed.
“Jessica, I am so sorry. The call cut off and obviously you could not be phoned back. What happened? Are you safe?”
“Oh.” You exhale. “Yeah, I guess. But that woman you sent me to? Her boyfriend was clearly on drugs.”
A tinge of something—resentment? anger?—lingers.
This must be extinguished.
“Do you need me to send a car to pick you up?”
The offer is declined, as expected.
Still, the solicitous attention to your well-being has the desired effect. Your voice modulates. Your words come more slowly as you describe your interactions. Cursory questions are asked about the two women. You are complimented on your ability to draw out their basic demographic details.
“I left Tiffani too soon to get a tip,” you say.
You are assured that you handled the situation perfectly, that your safety comes first.
Then a seed is carefully planted: “Is it possible that your prior experience with the theater director, the one you described to me in the hotel lobby, has left you feeling more vulnerable with men than you would otherwise?”
The question is delivered with compassion, naturally.
You fumble with an answer.
“I don’t—I hadn’t really thought about that,” you say.
The hint of self-doubt in your voice reveals that the query has landed effectively.
The buzz of an incoming call interrupts you. You stop speaking briefly. The number is quickly checked, but it belongs to my father. Not Thomas.
“Continue, please,” you are instructed.
Thomas has not responded to a message left for him more than an hour ago. This is atypical.
Where is he?
Your tone has remained deferential since the introduction of the possibility that your past is tainting your perceptions of your encounters with men. Perhaps you also remember how you jumped to conclusions with Scott in the hotel bar.
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