An Anonymous Girl (21 page)

“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.

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.

“The second woman, Tiffani . . . she mentioned
she just moved here from Detroit.” Your sentence is halting. You are probing for information without wanting to appear accusatory.

“I was just wondering . . . you said she was a part of your study?”

It was hoped that you would overlook this detail.

You were underestimated.

A quick recovery is necessary.

“My assistant, Ben, must have transposed two digits when he took down her
phone number,” you are told.

Effusive apologies are offered, and you accept them.

You must be drawn back in quickly; you will be needed again in just a few days for your most important assignment yet. A distraction is required.

Inspiration arrived serendipitously just moments ago, when my phone vibrated to signal the incoming call. The words that will entice you are selected:

“My father called today. He has a lead on a job that might be of interest.”

Your relief is obvious and immediate. A gasp, followed by a cry of delight. “Really?”

This exchange is followed by a promise that a check for your evening’s work will be ready for you the next time you come to the office.

You are brimming with questions, but you do not allow yourself to release them.

Excellent,
Jessica.

You are eased off the phone.

Supplies are gathered: A laptop. A pen and a fresh legal pad. A cup of peppermint tea, to engender alertness and warm the hands and throat.

The blueprint for your encounter with Thomas must be quickly drawn. Not a single detail can be left to chance.

There can be no missed connection this time.

Friday, December 14

Leo jumps on me as soon as I unlock my door, his little paws barely reaching my knees. He hasn’t been out since I left to do makeup on Reyna and Tiffani. I set down my case and grab my wool scarf, then clip on his leash.

I need this walk as much as he does right now.

Leo tugs me down the three flights of stairs and through the building’s
front door. Even though I’m only going to be gone for a few minutes, I yank it hard to make sure the sometimes-sticky lock engages.

While Leo relieves himself on a fire hydrant, I wrap the scarf around my neck and check my phone. Two missed texts. The first is from my theater friend Annabelle:
Miss you girl, call me!

The second is from an unfamiliar number:
Hey, just wanted you to know
Marilyn is doing okay. Her daughter said she was released from the hospital a few hours ago. Hope you got to your work assignment on time.
At the end, he added a smiling emoji.

Thanks for the update, that’s good news!
I type back.

As I continue to walk, I reach my free hand around to rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the knots. Even the promise of a possible new job for my dad doesn’t
offset the agitation I’m feeling.

I want to talk to someone about everything that is going on. But I can’t unburden myself to my father and mother, and not just because of Dr. Shields’s rule of secrecy.

I look at my phone again.

It’s not quite nine
P.M.

Noah is out of town until Sunday. I could call Annabelle or Lizzie and try to meet up with them. Their happy banter would be a
diversion, but right now it doesn’t feel like a welcome one.

I turn a corner and pass a restaurant with a string of white holiday lights dangling around windows. On the doorway of the shop next door is a wreath.

My stomach rumbles and I realize I haven’t eaten since lunch.

A group comes toward me, led by a guy in a floppy Santa hat. He’s walking backward, singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed
Reindeer” loudly and mixing up the lyrics while his friends laugh.

I step to one side to let them pass, feeling as if I’m disappearing into the shadows in my all-black work outfit.

A year ago, I was also part of a happy, loud group. We sat around after rehearsals on Friday nights, and Gene ordered in Chinese food for everyone. Sometimes Gene’s wife would stop by with homemade brownies
or cookies. In a way, it felt like a family.

I didn’t realize how much I miss it.

I’m alone tonight, but I’m used to that. It’s just that I don’t often feel lonely.

The last time I googled Gene, I saw his wife had just had a baby girl. My search turned up a picture of the three of them together at the opening of one of his shows, the wife smiling down at the infant in her arms. They
looked happy.

I think about the two texts from Katrina, the ones I haven’t answered.

A question has been forming in my mind, despite my efforts to move on from that period in my life. As I think about Gene’s innocent wife, it’s like I can hear Dr. Shields asking it: