She smiled. She had already chosen “FiredByU.”
“I’ll be sending you a request so we can share a Dropbox folder. From now on, put all your emails and diary entries into the Dropbox where they’ll be less susceptible to hacking and we can both check in. Don’t keep anything that’s just between us or about Youngskin on the computer, only in the Dropbox. The computer is for your regular office files—memos, work on Madame X, and such. Got it?” Anna nodded.
“And, remember, no using your own phone or iPad ever. No purchases, no catching up with BuzzFeed, no downloading, no browsing, no anything.”
“I left them in LA.”
“Good.” He paused. “You look good, Anna. Not at the finish line yet, but very good. From your diary entry, I take it the first procedure went well?”
“Oh, yes. I didn’t feel a thing. And I’ve been slathering on the products day and night.”
“Excellent. The doctor will be pleased with the results. Speaking of which, you need to sign these.” He handed her several documents, Post-its marking their signature lines. Seeing her narrowed eyes, he explained, “For the injectables. The doctor’s going to do more laser, but he’ll also give you some minor injections: Juvederm or Restylane to plump up your lips, fill in the fine lines, firm up your jawline. Maybe Botox for the lines around your eyes and on your forehead. Never fear, it won’t be so much your forehead goes all white and sweaty like David Cameron’s,” he added in what Anna supposed was, for him, a quip.
“Shots? Why weren’t injectables mentioned before?”
“Simply because the doctor hadn’t seen you before last week. The injectables are just fillers, Anna. You know, hyaluronic acid-based; they’ll wear off gradually over the course of six months to a year. Otherwise, as your skin grows younger looking, your thinning lips will look strange and the hollows under your cheekbones, which we all have after a certain age, might make people wonder if you’re older than you first appear. Why am I telling you this? You know more about these things than I do, I’m sure.”
“How can you tell how well the products work if I need all this laser and filler to look younger?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem like a fair test. And why do I need to look so much younger if the women who use the product won’t?”
“Do you want to stay here for three months?” he asked somewhat peevishly. “That’s how long it will take the average woman to see strong changes with the retail version. And the dermatology strength generally requires one month of steady use with a peel first.” He sighed, but when he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “You need to trust me, Anna. I understand that you’re anxious, but we have a timetable here, and everything is already tested and known to be safe.”
She opened her mouth to protest anew the way things kept coming up unexpectedly. Then she thought about her bank balance and the face she was seeing in the mirror these days. Finally, she signed, muttering, “In for a penny, in for a pound. Isn’t that the saying here?”
“Just keep in mind you’ll have financial security—and a guaranteed supply of Youngskin for the rest of your life.”
“You’re taking it for granted I’ll want to look younger forever?”
“Maybe not thirty years younger, but ten, fifteen, twenty?”
She shook her head slowly. “I suppose it depends on what my life’s like as the new me, how I feel when I wake up every day.”
He smiled. “Well, how do you feel now?”
“Now? I feel confident and attractive.” She laughed. “All the better, I suppose, considering my thinning lips and saggy jowls.”
“Please write that down in your diary, then. I want to know how you think and feel every day. Remember, a lot of money is at stake here.”
She nodded. Only later did she wonder why, when she was telling him how she felt, she’d hadn’t been perfectly honest and added, “I also feel a little scared.”
Friday, July 8
I can’t believe three weeks of jump-starting my second youth are over already. On the one hand, the time flew by. On the other, I sometimes felt every minute weighing on me. A fifty-seven-year-old with a full-time, often boring course load and personal trainers? It was like being back in college.
Dance training was fun, though. Kenny, the American coach, made a big point of saying at the start, “Remember, Lisa, this isn’t American Bandstand in the swinging seventies.” But dancing’s dancing, and other than a few hip-hop moves, he didn’t have much he could show me, so we just danced up a storm.
Frankly, I still don’t understand why I need to experience appearing thirty years younger when the customer won’t. I take it I’m supposed to start off by experiencing the “ultimate result” of looking and feeling younger and communicate that feeling to the target market. I mean, I know the products aren’t designed for women to pretend to be someone else, but I think we want to communicate that it’s flexibility and openness that make people seem younger, as well as their looks. Youngskin is the key to opening the door to a rejuvenated way of thinking.
The reflection in the mirror when I brush my teeth in the morning gets the day off to a super start. And I admit the injectables were the icing on the cake. I look fantastic. “Rock star!” as my coaches would say. Maybe I look more like thirty than twenty-five in bright daylight, but I can live with that. Let people think I’m a bit older than I pretend to be; they’ll still never get close to the truth.
My arms and neck are smooth and resilient, though my upper arms will never have the firmness required to go sleeveless; my face is luminous, poreless, and fresh. The workouts have paid off, so my body has shed at least fifteen years. It doesn’t match my face, but I can now absolutely rock my little black dress!
I’m a little nervous about moving into London tomorrow. Saturday in the big city after this isolation will be a change. I’ll be ready bright and early for Aleksei (have I mentioned how charmless he is?), and I’m eager to see the apartment, the details of which have not, as usual, been shared with me. (Sorry for the jabs, but I like to be kept more in the loop regarding my own life, more than just knowing I’ll be near the Gloucester Road Tube station.) South Kensington is a neighborhood I know a little and like. It might be on the staid side, but I think I’d feel misplaced in trendier areas like Hoxton and Shoreditch. And, yes, I’ve drilled myself to remember to tell everyone I’m staying at my aunt’s flat.
So much to remember when you become someone else. And now I truly am someone else, someone named Tanya. Are you going to tell me how you managed legally to obtain a new UK passport with a photo taken just the other day, along with the name Tanya Avery and my date of birth approximately twenty-seven years ago? I appreciate your promise that I won’t end up in jail. Funny, growing up, I would have loved having an American mother and British father, not to mention growing up in California and studying in New York.
You know, it’s great to look this good again, but what really matters to me now is that I’ll be working and that as long as I look ageless, I’ll have a career—simply because I don’t look old. I don’t consider this selling out my feminist beliefs, either, which is something we should stress in marketing. It wasn’t a woman’s idea that women over forty have passed the point of no return in the business world; no female glazier created the glass ceiling. But as long as that’s the world’s misconception, then all the talented, ambitious women who have no intention of sitting at home turning into invisible grannies deserve a helping hand. A woman has the right to be externally the person she knows she is internally. And if YOUNGER is the key to that, I want to be Forever YOUNG.
Yes, “YOUNGER.” I think this should be the brand name, should always be written with the capitals, and should be trademarked that way. We’re offering women the chance to remain themselves while looking more youthful. Once I thought about it, the slogo wrote itself:
YOU, only YOUNGER.
Catchy, huh?
Chapter 9
Anna felt as nervous as any new employee on her first day of work as she was ushered into Pierre Barton’s office by a woman in her midthirties who introduced herself as Eleanor Hamblett and who managed to look both efficient (tortoiseshell glasses, tweedy suit) and sexy (midlength straight dark hair, skirt short enough and heels high enough to add a note of daring).
“Thank you, Eleanor. And welcome to Barton Pharmaceuticals, Tanya.” Barton stood and came around his desk—a half oval of inlaid wood that probably cost a year of Eleanor’s salary—to shake Anna’s hand formally, then gestured toward the couple seated on the couch against the wall. “Let me present your team: Becca Symonds and Chas Power.”
The two couldn’t have been more different. Becca was studious looking and shy, her eyes darting like caged finches. From her minimal makeup to her chain-salon haircut and frumpy skirt and twinset, everything about her shouted “workhorse.” Becca’s bio stated that she was thirty-two, probably younger than the confidence-dripping Eleanor, but she looked older. Anna wondered if Becca was taken advantage of, simply because women like Becca always were.
Everything about Chas, on the other hand, shouted “show dog!” He could have been one of those medium-ish people who pass unnoticed—brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, medium build—but he never would be. He stood out by virtue of the traits that allow up-and-comers to shift into the fast lane, passing lesser mortals like Becca. His haircut was perfect: long in front, short in back, as close to a signature as some top stylist could make with hair. His clothes were simple yet GQ chic, stretch corduroys and a Henley of tissue-fine summer-weight wool, with fashionably anti-fashionista suede desert boots. Mostly, though, Chas was all about that feature Anna didn’t automatically connect with the UK: an exceptional commitment to dental work. His teeth were the kind of white, straight perfection most commonly associated with movie stars. Bleached, Anna thought, or perhaps veneers. Yes, an ambitious boy.
“Hey, guys, nice to meet you.” She flashed her own expensive smile. “I’m really looking forward to us working together.”
She stood in make-believe awkwardness until Barton said, “Let’s sit over here with Becca and Chas, shall we?” She could tell the wingback chair belonged to the boss; it cut toward the desk-matching coffee table like the prow of a ship. She perched on a small club chair that matched the sofa. A quick look at the surroundings revealed understated luxury, the walls bare except for two framed antique maps, one of London and one of Paris.
Becca and Chas were trying not to stare openly as they assessed this usurper in their midst. Anna had worked long and hard getting her look right, attempting to see herself through alien eyes. Last week, she’d finished with her hair, a new stylist doing the color—going for auburn with some bold yellow streaks (yes, yellow), keeping Milo’s style but adding what the new hairdresser had called an “in-the-now choppy fringe.” She had decided to go with her tribal print skirt and crocheted vest for Day One, with red jersey, red socks, and half-laced ankle boots. She couldn’t wear her own jewelry anymore—it didn’t fit Tanya’s style or price range. So she’d bought a bunch of cheap silver bangles and a red gummy bracelet watch, a look snatched right off the Topshop poster.
“I hear I’m going to work with a couple of real smarty-pants,” she said brightly. Becca flushed and Chas worked the teeth.
“We’ve heard great things about you,” Chas managed to get in first. “You were a consultant in New York?”
“Oh, all over.” She waved a hand globally. “Did some work in Hong Kong, too. I go wherever the work is.”
“Did you work on Madame X’s American launch?” Becca clearly knew the answer, so Anna guessed the point of her question was to publicly establish herself as the old pro and Tanya as new girl in town. That was fine.
“Nope. I was working on a numbing product. For tats and bikini waxes, y’know? But I heard from some editor friends the launch party was brilliant. An editor who was at the party talked me up to Mr. Barton, and here I am.”
“Hugh, who’s VP of marketing on the Coscom accounts, is out of the office until this afternoon,” Barton said after a modicum of small talk, “so I’ll leave you to Becca and Chas and see you back here at four o’clock.”
Becca excused herself—saying she had an analgesic press release to finish—leaving it to Chas to give “Tanya” the tour. He rose to the occasion like a guide at Universal Studios, whisking Anna through the three converted town houses in Cavendish Square that comprised Barton Pharmaceuticals’ London headquarters. Even though an elevator had been put in after walls were knocked down, the place still had a homey feeling. “Restoring old houses gave the company two important advantages,” Chas noted. “Added security since no other company works here and a comfortable, established atmosphere.”
“I’d expected something larger.”
“Oh, this is just for Mr. Barton and M&M: marketing and meetings. Wait till you see the conference room. Off the chain. The heavy lifting goes on at an industrial estate in Gloucestershire—and, of course, at the Barton Pharmaceutical Research Center in Switzerland.”
Anna was struck by how little she knew about BarPharm. To her, the company had never been more than the new owners of Coscom, and while she’d studied up online in the past weeks, she now realized she’d been content to keep her knowledge cursory, concentrating on best-known pharmaceutical products that would add clout to the YOUNGER “story.” The dull stuff, she had figured she would leave to someone like Becca.
After they’d toured all the floors, Chas escorted Anna to her new office. “We have our own little wing,” he said. “I sit here—one-man bullpen. Becca’s office is on the right, and”—he opened the door behind his desk on the left—“this one’s got your name on it.”
Desk. Bookcases. Window. View. Ergonomic chair. Guest chair. Anna nodded. “Super. Could you bring me all the files you have on Madame X and the UK beauty press? After you point me toward the loo, that is.” The perfect Chas, she considered, might never need to pee. But she was only human.
In the ladies’ room, she reapplied her trendy new brown-red lipstick, wondering if it made her look too hard. Her old one was a creamy pale coral she was sure no woman Tanya’s age would look at twice in a shop. She was feeling her own age today, though. She had expected to rest on Saturday and Sunday, but once settled into her new home—a quiet second-floor walk-up in a small older building off Gloucester Road—she felt restless and eager to walk on real streets in a real city.
The flat was fine. The skirted chintz couch with matching chairs in the living room and old mahogany bedstead spoke of what her mother would have respectfully termed “quality.” And she even had a closet-sized office. She stayed long enough to check the fridge and note that someone had thoughtfully left some provisions, then she locked the door and clomped downstairs in her UGGs.
She headed for Gloucester Road and the nearest Underground station, bought a rechargeable Oyster card for the Tube, then took the train to Oxford Street. She’d never thought she could have so much fun shopping alone, but being free after virtual imprisonment was exhilarating. She hit just about every midpriced, trendy chain store in London, and emerged laden with bags of clothing and makeup and a black leather motorcycle jacket.
After splurging at an eye-poppingly expensive sushi bar, she stopped at the Waitrose by the Tube station to pick up more food. Back at the flat, she unpacked and hung up her clothes, watched some television as she ate a sandwich and, after she’d anointed herself with YOUNGER, slept deeply.
First thing next morning, she caught up with the news online and sent emails (“Hi! Just arrived in Bangkok and am trying to find a cheap pension, but it’s just for a few days before I go off to explore and escape the pollution”). When she’d finished, she did everything Pierre had instructed, putting copies in the Dropbox, then deleting both the originals and her browsing history before turning off the computer.
Only after making the bed and tidying the flat did she indulge herself in the guilty pleasure of a real English fry-up breakfast at a café. Sometimes, a girl just had to have eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, and baked beans, right? Then she wandered contentedly around her neighborhood, thrilled to feel concrete under her feet and see throngs of strangers after her lonely weeks at the mansion.
She’d girded herself for Monday, so was pleased with how well it turned out. Becca invited her to lunch, most certainly on Barton’s orders, to a brasserie down the street. Over salad Niçoise, Anna tried to draw out the other woman. It was hard work at first. Viewing Anna as a competitor, Becca was on guard, so Anna concentrated on presenting herself as a harmless ally, chattering about her off-and-on boyfriend back home. She made a point of stressing how excited she was about her temporary job with Becca and Chas at BarPharm.
By the end of lunch, Becca had warmed up enough for Anna to learn that she still lived in the suburbs with her parents, liked Chas and had hired him herself three months before, and thought both Pierre’s personal assistant and wife were, in her words, “not very friendly.” Crush on the boss, Anna mentally filed away.
“Pierre’s assistant seems like she’s got her shit together—oops, sorry, I forgot I’m in London now and not Noo Yawk.” She mugged and Becca laughed appreciatively. “I mean, she looks superefficient.”
“Oh, she is,” Becca said so emphatically it wasn’t a compliment. “Efficiency is Eleanor’s middle name. As for Marina—Mrs. Barton—she doesn’t come to the office often, but when she does, she rarely makes the effort to say hello. Odd, isn’t it? I mean, when he’s so nice. And gentlemanly.”
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