She read it over twice. DOA. The insinuation that this might be more than a simple myocardial infarction was there, if subtly—the question mark on the headline, for starters. Was it usual to have a coroner’s inquiry in the UK, or did the police suspect Pierre might have been murdered? His breathlessness, red face, sweating—she’d hoped to read he had indisputably died of what it had seemed to be: a heart attack. What about the person who’d almost knocked him down as he approached her building? She vaguely recalled the story of someone poisoned years ago by a blade hidden in the assassin’s umbrella. If Barton had been murdered, would the police suspect she was the killer? Would they be after her, too?
She signed onto her personal email, quickly scanning her in-box. She sent a group note to everyone back in the States, saying only that she was hitting the road again “in search of warm weather in Cape Town.” Pretty lame, but anything that might keep someone who was auditing her emails from finding her was worth doing.
Then, unable to avoid it, she went to her Barton Pharmaceuticals mailbox, her Tanya Avery account, where she found three emails dated yesterday afternoon that needed reading.
The first was to the entire staff, sent to both their work and home emails by Pierre’s personal assistant, Eleanor, simply and solemnly announcing Barton’s death that morning. The office would be closed Monday, with funeral details to be posted later.
The second, from Pierre’s wife, Marina, was abrupt. “Call or text ASAP!”
The third was from Becca, a coworker at BarPharm.
Eleanor called to tell me Mr. Barton collapsed at your apartment this morning. Wherever you are, Tanya, I hope you’re all right. I thought you should know that a stranger came by the house when my mum was cooking supper, a posh blond type who didn’t even introduce himself—just said Mrs. Barton had sent him. He seemed very keen to find you, but he didn’t seem like a policeman. Please take care.
Anna typed in Pierre Barton’s email address. On the subject line, she filled in “Final Diary Entry.” And then she wrote:
This is my last diary entry.
After the ambulance left yesterday, I sent a message telling Marina the hospital name. I knew there was no reason for me to go there.
Whoever reads this—and I know someone will—let this serve as my letter of resignation. I’m not sure what you’re up to, but I refuse to be a part of it anymore.
I’ve left a record of everything that’s transpired since April in a safe place. You would be very unwise to come looking for me.
I’m sure you’ll try to find me anyway, one of you, whoever you are.
By then, I plan on having figured things out. And it will be too late for you.
Until then, I remain,
Tanya. Lisa. Anna.
There, that should give someone food for thought. She opened a new email account for herself, as [email protected], her own little sick joke (“The Last Account”). On Craigslist Berlin, she found three “roommate wanted” ads that might do and sent emails from “Lisa” on that account, asking to view the available rooms. “If you can get back to me sometime tonight, I’d like to see your flat tomorrow.”
Walking to the station, she was pretty sure that, for the moment, no one knew where she was, which made her feel not good, but better at least than she had since she’d come back into her living room with a glass of water in her hand the day before. Could that have been just yesterday?
The Berlin express didn’t leave from Central Station, which suited Anna’s plan. She bought a ticket from Amsterdam Schiphol Airport Station to Berlin Hauptbahnhof, as well as one for the airport shuttle train. When she reached Schiphol, she found a store that sold prepaid SIM cards and bought one for a standard cell phone. Soon she’d have enough SIM cards for a poker hand.
Next, she picked up a couple of English-language thrillers and a sudoku book, the kind of stuff a tourist might purchase for a trip. She’d already tucked her Berlin Time Out guidebook into her shoulder bag.
Twenty-five minutes before departure, she went to the ladies’ room near the security lanes leading to the long-haul-flight departure lounges. She turned on her BarPharm BlackBerry, switched it to silent, then climbed onto one of the toilets to wedge it high above and behind the tank where it couldn’t be seen. If anyone was tracking it, they’d end up here. With luck, they’d think she’d flown to Cape Town or back to the States. She inserted the new SIM card into her cheap cell phone and sent a single text message, then turned off the phone.
On the way down to the tracks, she bought a sandwich and a bottle of water, reaching her platform with the train already there. The car was half full, not bad for blending in. Toward the door into the car ahead, she spotted a girl with a mass of blond dreadlocked hair sitting alone next to the window in a grouping of four seats with a table in the middle. She didn’t mind riding backward, so she sat down across the table, but on the aisle so they’d both have legroom. Now it wouldn’t be so obvious that she was on her own.
She settled down, surreptitiously looked around, and saw no one suspicious. With a perfunctory smile at the young woman across from her, she slipped off her coat and pulled her scarf up over her chin and her hat down to her eyes. Closing them, she feigned sleep.
The weeks between that fateful lunch at The Ivy and the Madame X launch had flown by so quickly Anna could almost feel the air rushing past, bringing her closer to no work and too little money. She was busy with the details of the launch party, which she’d booked months ago at Block, the hottest new New York club. Otherwise, life was uneventful; the few things that stood out were notable solely for their awkwardness.
The first was Clive Madden’s discomfort when she bumped into him in the lobby at Coscom after Easter. She was arriving to see Richard and he was on his way out. As they came face-to-face, the chubby little Englishman turned bright red and smiled hesitantly.
He’s afraid I might make a scene, Anna thought, putting on a fake grin and forcing him to speak first.
“Ah, well, hello there!” he finally blustered. “Here to see Richard?”
Her smile tightened. “Am I still allowed in the building? Hard to finish the launch otherwise, you know.”
His color deepened. “Of course you’re allowed. You’re welcome here any time. And congratulations on the Madame X collaterals. Even Mr. Barton said they were spectacular.”
Now it was her turn to be speechless. “No good deed goes unpunished, right?” she finally blurted.
At five foot eight plus heels, Anna towered over him. Looking far from ruthless, he peeked up at her. “Sorry, but it wasn’t—it wasn’t . . . an easy decision. Naturally, I’ll give you the highest recommendation and send any work I can your way. And I deeply appreciate your agreeing to work through the launch.”
He held out his hand. Of course, she shook it, a reputation as a poor loser being one of the many things she could now ill afford. “Thank you, Clive.” They stood in silence before smiling with jointly false brightness and nodding good-bye.
As she walked down the wide hallway toward Richard’s office, Anna couldn’t help but think Madden had seemed about to say, “It wasn’t my decision.”
When she related the encounter to Richard, all she got was a shrug. “C’mon, Richard, if not his decision, whose was it?”
“But he didn’t actually say that, did he? And whose decision could it be? You don’t think I’d suggest letting you go, do you?” He looked horrified.
“Of course I don’t. You have to admit it seems odd, ditching me in the midst of a major launch,” she mused. “I mean, slashing budgets, et cetera, et cetera. Which other consultants were let go?”
Richard hesitated before shaking his head. “None that I know of.”
“Any in-house staff shown the door?”
Another head shake.
“You know, almost twenty years ago, at my last job in Ne
w York, the head of the company didn’t like me because I wouldn’t suck up.”
“And?”
“And I was chosen to be part of a general layoff.”
Richard peered at her over his glasses, tortoiseshell today to match his brown silk tweed jacket. “And?”
“And the rest of the big ‘general layoff’ was a guy in accounting with late-stage AIDS.” Anna shook her head. “I don’t doubt Clive made the decision. But something about the way he spoke gave me a weird feeling.”
“Just relax. Don’t start getting obsessed with Clive.”
“You’re right.” She did a quick shoulder roll and took a deep breath. “Now, let’s decide on these gift bag items and get some of Coscom’s excess minions busy.”
Then there was her lunch with Gregg Hatch, executive director of the Western Cosmetics Council and unofficial go-to guy for anyone looking to switch jobs or accounts. He was also known for being selectively discreet—no single person knew exactly what he knew.
But as soon as Anna said, “I’m in the market for some new accounts,” she knew he wasn’t going to help.
“Well, good luck to you.” His smile was a little too cheerful, his voice a bit too loud. “These are, of course, hard times,” he said solemnly, like an anchorman introducing a poor economic forecast.
Liar, Anna thought. “I know there are cutbacks everywhere, but with a product launch like Madame X under my belt—”
“Yes, I hear you’ve done a fantastic job.”
“And the rest of the sentence?”
He looked at her blankly. “I’m not following, I’m afraid.”
“The ‘but’ and the part that comes after it.”
“Well, just that . . . just that these are hard times.” He waved a hand vaguely, as if hard times were plotting somewhere off to his left.
“So, tell me, do you think these are going to be particularly ‘hard times’ for me?”
“For you? Of course not.” He had the good grace to blush. “You’re a thoroughbred, Anna. You want clients, you’ll get clients.”
“Anyone in mind?” she asked, knowing there wouldn’t be.
Gregg motioned for the check, avoiding her gaze. When he turned back, his eyes were flat, the shutters drawn. “I’ll let you know if I hear of anything.” His smile reasserted itself, sincere as a time-share salesman’s. “You can count on me.”
Was she getting paranoid? Her assistant handed her only three messages on her return from lunch. Had everyone she knew suddenly decided she was over the hill? Christ!
Just three messages, and two were from ad salesmen. “Just blow them off, Kelly,” she said. “Then memo Richard asking to whom we should be referring ad reps from now on.” The third message was from Jan, inviting her to a barbecue the following Sunday.
“A barbecue? Are you going all Topanga rustic on us now?” she teased when Jan answered the phone. The Bergers had bought a big house in the canyon two years before, in keeping with the piles of money George was making.
“We never had a proper housewarming, and with George’s movie opening soon, we thought we’d inaugurate the new screening room, as well.”
“Spareribs and bloodsucking nightwalkers? You won’t find me passing that up.”
Jan didn’t sound like a woman worried that her husband had a roving eye, Anna thought as she put down the receiver. Still, even considering how long they’d been friends, Anna doubted she’d be the one on the receiving end of confidences. She and Jan just weren’t that close.
Anyhow, she had enough worries of her own. She reached for her Rolodex. There were plenty of people besides that deadbeat Gregg Hatch to remind of her continued existence.
A barbecue that included a screening meant industry big shots and celeb casual dress. Anna wore superstretchy designer jeans, with a fitted white ruffled shirt that had set her back almost $500 at Barney’s even on sale, and a pair of black Prada flats. Over a thousand smackeroos’ worth of casual, she thought as she grabbed a gray pashmina from the coat rack by the door to the garage.
More and more, she saw Jan only at the “girly dinners” with Allie, so she’d been to the Bergers’ massive spread only twice. The backyard was walled off, but tonight the double security gate stood open.
Anna made her way toward the sound of voices and muted music beyond. She vaguely recognized a few of Jan’s “mom” friends and spotted Allie’s boss, a portly, saturnine über-agent almost as well-known as his clients.
Then she spied her hostess perched on a chaise lounge by the pool, chatting with Allie and her girlfriend, Shawna. “Sorry. I guess fashionably late went out of style while I was still doing my makeup,” she said as she joined them. “Hey, Shawna.”
Shawna smiled warmly, giving her long, curly hair a shake.
“Some barbecue, Jannie.” Anna turned and looked at the eight-topper round teak tables sitting under a marquee awning close to the house, next to which a catering team in white jackets and chefs’ toques presided over a row of gas grills.
“You think the tables are okay without cloths? George told me that’d make it look too much like a wedding.”
“Well, if it isn’t the elegant Anna!” She turned to see George bearing down on her. The formerly scruffy, bearded hippie philosophy instructor was now a clean-shaven, balding country squire. All that was missing was the ascot.
Fame had settled on George Berger’s spindly shoulders with a vengeance. He’d become embarrassingly pompous, considering that his success sprang from highbrow folderol about vampires that was, nonetheless, utter trash. The new George had handily forgotten the old George’s failure to get tenure at a series of Midwestern universities. While the new Jan had retained her down-home style, George had tried remaking himself as a bon vivant, an experiment as fruitless as his tenure attempts.
“Swell party,” she murmured, air-kissing a cloud of aftershave.
He gestured expansively. “I think you’ll enjoy the food,” he promised, his tone insinuating that others rarely got to dine as sumptuously as did the Bergers. To his wife, he said, “Now can you see how gauche white tablecloths would have looked, sweetheart?”
Jan flushed at George’s dry chuckle, while Anna mentally cringed as he grasped his spouse’s elbow and pulled her to her feet, his smile patronizing. “And now I need to take my lady wife away to greet some of our other guests.” Jan followed like a chastened child.
“Whoa! What was that ‘lady wife’ stuff? And treating Jan like she’s twelve?”
Allie shook her head. “I shouldn’t say it, especially now that George is my client, but he’s become unbearable. You don’t see them often, or you wouldn’t have been surprised that Jan worries he’ll get tired of her. He treats her like the hired help.”
“And she just takes it?”
Allie shrugged. “When they’re alone, who knows? She’d never cross him in public. And even if she fears being suddenly the fired help, she’s still in awe of him. Of course, poor Jan’s in awe of almost everyone. Don’t let her fool you, either. She—Oh, hell, here comes Nadine Metzger.” Her voice dropped. “Simply the most boring producer in—Hey, Nadine, how’s life? Do you know my friend Anna?”
After the most elaborate barbecue Anna had ever been served, everyone filed dutifully into the screening room. In a world where even lowly assistants had monster flat-screen TVs on their walls, the Bergers’ setup raised the bar for aspirants. As the guests entered, the back wall slid open to reveal a screen of multiplex proportions; the rest of the room was given over to overstuffed armchairs set in pairs next to small tables. A built-in bar was staffed by a man as handsome as Tapp Blaine, the film’s young star, who had suddenly materialized to soak up his share of attention, giving George a brisk man-hug before turning to greet those more pivotal to his career.
To Anna’s surprise, the hostess plopped herself down on the chair beside hers. �
�Aren’t you going to sit with George, Jan?”
“Nah.” She shrugged. “Hey, lemme get us some wine before he starts yakking. He’ll kill me if I interfere with his moment!” Before Anna could say she didn’t want more to drink, Jan was on her feet, bumping into a few tables on the way to the bar, having clearly imbibed plenty already.
She came back followed by the bartender, who carried a bottle of white wine in a chiller and two glasses.
“Ah, here goes,” Jan murmured as those in front took their seats and the lights faded.
“Have you seen it before?”
“Not seeing it would be grounds for divorce.” Jan snorted. “It isn’t bad, though.”
Anna supposed that, as far as contemporary vampire films went, it would be bearable. George wasn’t completely devoid of talent, though Anna had found his last movie more irritating than frightening.
A short way into the night’s offering, it, too, irritated. The shallow, gorgeous twenty-five-year-olds pretending they’d lived for two hundred years not only looked adolescent, they behaved like teenagers, too, as though the need for fresh blood came second to tracking trends and getting laid. Then someone on-screen said, “What more could anyone want than to stay young forever?” and she felt the character could have been summing up her own dilemma.
That’s what it was all about, and not just in the movie industry. Especially, she thought ominously, when you’re fifty-seven and faced with a total lack of income until Social Security kicks in. She forced her attention back to the screen. She couldn’t sob at George’s screening. At least not until the sad part. And with this kind of movie, she knew she could count on a sad part before it was over.
By the time the lights went up to applause mixed with whistles and hoots, Anna felt more sleepy than weepy. She turned to Jan, who was pouring herself the dregs of the wine, Anna having left her own glass almost untouched. “That was really”—she wiped the word interesting off her lips since everyone knew it was Hollywoodese for lousy—“thought-provoking.”
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