“I told you, she’s having problems with George,” Allie said over dinner when Anna mentioned the incident. “I don’t know what’s going on, but she isn’t happy.”
“So why take it out on me?”
“Maybe because she’s been jealous of you since college?”
“Me?” Anna was flabbergasted. “That’s impossible.”
“Sometimes you amaze me, A. Even at school, Jan thought you were beautiful in a way she’d never be. ‘Anna’s Grace Kelly Ice Queen Look,’ I remember her calling it. She envied your majoring in theater and starring in school productions. And now—well, you’ve had a successful career and you’ve kept in shape. Jan’s stuck with George, who takes her for granted when he isn’t treating her like an idiot, and yet he’s her whole identity. Plus, she’s let herself go physically, and her work isn’t taken seriously by anyone, including herself.
“She’s bitter, and it’s made her boring. Not to sound cold-blooded, but if it weren’t for George and the agency, I wouldn’t see her much, either.” The conversation helped Anna feel a little less bad about lying and leaving: one fewer friend to miss.
Not that she was leaving many friends behind. As her departure time approached, she found herself wishing she’d spent less time working and more time getting to know acquaintances better. Maybe next year she would. Having had the rug pulled out from under her was changing her perceptions. She’d always considered herself a loner, but it had never occurred to her she might end up alone.
Then she was on a plane bound for London. This time, she hadn’t downloaded magazines filled with articles about aging women. Instead, she waited until she got to Heathrow early the next morning, then, thinking she should learn what was new and hot in Britain, she bought some music and fashion monthlies.
As soon as she walked out to the passenger pickup zone outside the customs exit, she spotted the Bentley at the curb, Barton’s dour chauffeur standing ramrod straight next to its open trunk. “How are you, Aleksei?” she asked as he took her two checked bags and her carry-on.
She supposed his unsmiling nod as he held the car door for her meant everything was peachy keen. Once again, the privacy partition was up, isolating her from the front of the car.
Screw you, Anna thought, then settled back and, since she’d slept little, promptly closed her eyes. She woke to see countryside slipping past quickly, Aleksei making good time in the sparse Sunday morning traffic, blurred arrows indicating towns she’d never heard of posted along the divided highway. When they turned off onto a smaller road, she twisted in her seat and noted the signs to London pointed the other way. She leaned forward and tapped lightly on the partition, which inched down minimally. “Excuse me, aren’t we going to London?”
“Nyet,” came the guttural answer. “Another place. Mr. Barton comes to see you tomorrow.” Bzzzzzz, said the partition as it slid back up. Anna was annoyed, though not so much that she didn’t fall asleep again immediately.
She woke again as the car was crunching up a very long gravel drive ending at a sprawling stone mansion. The front door opened, and a burly man in a dark suit, white shirt, and striped vest emerged. He bowed slightly to Anna as Aleksei pulled the bags from the trunk. “I am Mikal. I take your bags.” Another Russian. All of Pierre’s wife’s old family retainers, perhaps.
Before getting back in the car, Aleksei said, “They will call you ‘Lisa.’ You are Lisa Jones here.” Then he turned away and she followed the broad black serge-covered back of Mikal up the wide steps to the open front door.
Inside, a dour Scotswoman introduced herself as Mrs. McCallum. “Come to the kitchen while Mikal takes your bags to your room,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a cup of tea. Americans do drink tea, don’t they?”
“Yes, thank you. That would be very nice.”
In the sparkling clean, large, and modern kitchen, Mrs. McCallum, as befitted her nationality and position, “kept herself to herself.” She answered Anna’s questions in a miserly manner that showed she wasn’t used to giving anything away. “Yes, awhile,” she answered when asked if she’d worked for the Bartons for a long time. As to how long, she wasn’t saying. “A few years it’s been.”
Where exactly was this? “Here? This is Gloucestershire. Don’t you know the area, then?” When Anna shook her head, she said dismissively, “Well, then you wouldn’t know the nearby towns.” As if sensing another question being formulated, she whipped out a tray and placed upon it a cup and saucer, spoon, teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, and plate of oat cookies. As she poured hot water into the pot, she said, “You must be tired,” turning it into a statement of fact. “Come along. I’ll show you your room and draw a nice bath for you.” Anna wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d added, “Don’t dawdle.”
The older woman led the way up the wide, winding staircase leading off the main wood-panelled hall. “No one else is here right now. You’re in the Blue Room, and the bath is en suite.” She opened the door to a large room with a view over a garden and lawn. There was a four-poster bed, built-in wardrobe, desk, and dresser. When Anna checked the wardrobe, she saw it already held her limited supply of clothing. Did butlers unpack for guests? As best she remembered from Upstairs, Downstairs, the old families had employed ladies’ maids, but she supposed Mikal did anything that fell outside Mrs. McCallum’s areas of cleaning and cooking.
The housekeeper was already running the bath, and she seemed to have every intention of staying in the bathroom until the tub was filled. Anna arranged the items from her carry-on bag on top of the dresser, the bedside tables, and the writing desk by the window. Then she sat to drink her tea.
When the housekeeper emerged, her wire-rimmed glasses were fogged with steam. “That’s ready for you, then,” she said in her no-frills way. “What time would you like lunch, or would you rather sleep?”
“Oh, no, I’ll have lunch. If I nap too much, I’ll never get my body clock back to normal.”
“I’ll bring lunch at one o’clock, then. Dinner will be in the dining room at eight. There are paths in the garden if you want a walk after lunch, though it looks like rain. Behind the panel opposite the bed, you’ll find a telly and DVD player as well as one of those iPods and some films. Books over there, next to the desk. Mr. Barton will come for breakfast tomorrow at half past seven.” She nodded—curtly, of course—and was gone.
Anna luxuriated in the deep old-fashioned bathtub, letting the tension and airport grime melt away. Then she wrapped herself in the soft robe she’d found hanging from a hook on the door and slipped under the bed’s fluffy duvet. She woke on her own an hour later and was already dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, and joggers when the tap came at the door.
Mrs. McCallum, bearing lunch, replaced one tray with another. “If you want to go outside after lunch, close the door behind you and ring when you get back. It’s spitting out there but not enough to keep anyone indoors.” Her tone implied only the weak shrank from a little rain. “There are wellies and macs in the mudroom off the kitchen. Keep the house in sight and you won’t get lost.”
Suddenly, Anna was ravenous. God knew what time she’d last eaten a real meal. She couldn’t wait to attack the cold plate Mrs. McCallum had brought: cheeses, sliced meats, salad, breads, and a selection of sauces ranging from chutneys to mustard. A little pot held coffee, while another was filled with steamed milk. I think I’m going to like this hotel, she joked to herself as she picked up her knife and fork and prepared to dig in.
“Everyone looking after you all right?” Barton asked, as he sat sipping coffee across the table from her the next morning.
“More than all right,” she assured him. “I had a meander around the grounds and a great dinner, thank you. You don’t live here?”
“Here? No. We live in town and have a country house—just a cottage—not far from here.” He gestured vaguely. “This is an investment property we use as a corporate retreat and
meeting center. The third floor’s all fitted out—well, you’ll see it. Now, here’s your schedule for the week.”
And what a schedule it was. Anna stared at it, flummoxed. The next five days were completely filled with what seemed to be classes: Movement, Speech, Grooming, Attitude, Lifestyle. “You’ll spend three weeks here. At the end of it, you’ll look thirty years younger and be able to make people think you are. That acting experience of yours will come in handy.”
“And these people, these, whatever—teachers?”
“All professionals. Your name for the time being is Lisa Jones. You’re an off-Broadway actress from New York who’s working on a one-woman show in which you’ll need to portray a twenty-five-year-old. You’ve come here and rented this house to study in preparation for rehearsals, then you’ll be taking the show to the Edinburgh Fringe before opening off-Broadway in the fall.”
“They fell for that story, that some unknown American actress has all this at her disposal to bone up for a part off-Broadway?”
He shrugged. “They fell for the high fees. Maybe they think you’re a wealthy and unrealistic dreamer. It doesn’t really matter, does it?” He handed her a folder. “Lisa Jones’s fact sheet is in here, as are brief bios of your coaches. You’ll have new coaches each week, as your looks change.”
“My looks? The results are going to appear that quickly?”
“Actually”—he pulled a paper from his portfolio—“because we’re speeding up the process a little, I need you to sign this consent for laser resurfacing. Aleksei will drive you to the facility Saturday. It’s low-intensity laser, solely to accelerate the absorption of the ingredients, nothing to be scared about. You’ll start using the three products immediately after the treatment: cleanser, moisturizer, and night treatment. Our nurse will explain it all to you. Face, neck, décolleté, hands, and arms only, and be sure to use the exfoliating cleanser on all areas first. The products are stronger than what we’re producing for everyday use—again, to accelerate the results. You’ll be switched to the normal strength after the three weeks.” He handed her a white tube. “In the meantime, you need to apply this high-strength retinol morning and evening, starting tonight, avoiding the eye area. Your skin will peel like a sunburn by Saturday, primed for laser. That morning, just rinse your face with water, nothing else. If you go outside any time when it isn’t raining, stay out of the sun and use sunblock as well—there’s some SPF 50 in your bathroom cupboard.”
“Retinol? Laser?” She shook her head. “Why wasn’t I told this? And how do I know it’s safe?”
“Retinol is given out like lollipops by dermatologists for skin renewal, and laser is done over lunch hour these days. You know that, Anna. As for safe, I can show you the statements from our labs showing that the Youngskin products meet FDA standards. I told you that.”
“And besides the classes, what is there to do? We seem to be in the middle of nowhere.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, yes, we are. You can’t just let people see you looking younger every day. Losing ten years a week is going to be pretty noticeable, Anna. Mikal and Mrs. McCallum have been told you’re having laser and plastic surgery. No one else except Aleksei knows anything. Have you set up the computer?” At her puzzled look, he said, “Your top desk drawer. The housekeeper should have told you. You’ll find your new laptop and your official BarPharm BlackBerry, which will be the only electronics you’ll use from now on. There’s Wi-Fi if you want to go online, but don’t order anything or have books downloaded. Don’t use your credit cards or anything with your real name on it anywhere from now on. If you want a book or DVD, tell me and I’ll make sure you get it.
“Also, you should start your diary on the rejuvenating experience right away. Write about the classes, how you feel, how you see yourself. How does your walk change? What do you think makes your voice sound like that of a woman in her fifties and how can you change it? That sort of thing.
“So you see? You’ll have plenty to do, plus homework. All the instructions are in the folder, which you’ll return to Aleksei intact when you leave here.”
She must have looked like she was freaking out—she certainly felt like it—because he quickly reassured her. “This is all just for confidentiality, Anna. Industrial espionage is always a threat, even more so in pharmaceuticals than in cosmetics. We need to be careful. We’re dealing with a very important product. Now”—he pushed his chair back, smiling—“I’ll tell Mrs. McCallum to bring your breakfast. I look forward to reading your first diary entry tomorrow.”
This is absurd, she thought as she waited for her breakfast to come. Movement. Grooming. Lifestyle! Did he really think he could make a fifty-seven-year-old woman pass for twenty-five again? She was a good enough actress not to need these dumb classes, but her age was her age. No one was ever going to buy her as someone in her twenties. And all this cloak-and-dagger silliness about returning files and for-your-eyes-only? She knew companies stole each other’s formulas; she was used to some degree of secrecy. Was Barton a nutcase? She pushed that thought out of her mind as Mrs. McCallum arrived bearing a tray. This project was going to make her rich. Surely, that meant she could humor the man paying her and pretend that she, too, thought some skin cream might be a matter of life and death.
Netherlands, September 11, 2011
Anna was roused from her daydreaming as the conductor collected tickets. Her eyes opening was the cue the girl across from her had been waiting for. “Do you go to school in Berlin?”
“Me? Oh, no, I’m just traveling around. I graduated from college in the States. NYU.” Stop overexplaining, she told herself sternly.
“Oh, cool! You’re American, too.” Her seatmate, who wore a holey sweater as long as her miniskirt over ripped tights with clogs, clearly wanted to talk. She said she was taking a year to “hang” in Europe before returning home to Florida to face a master’s program. “I was in Amsterdam for a month, long enough. I’m gonna hang in Berlin until who knows when, because it’s, like, the place now. Amsterdam has too many old hippies for me.”
“It’s pretty, though, isn’t it?” Anna said, already barely remembering having been there. “I’m Lisa, by the way.”
“I’m Chyna. With a y.” Her grin was open and friendly as a child’s. “Hey, we should hang together in Berlin. I don’t know, like, a soul. It will be nice that I know somebody now.”
That was fine with Anna. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“Thought I’d head over to Prenzlauer Berg where they say the best hostels are. You?”
“I had the same idea. Maybe we can go together, if that’s okay?”
“Totally. If it’s not crowded, we might even be able to score a whole four-bed dorm to ourselves. You pay by the bed, not by how many people share the room. So we could end up with a deuce for the price of sharing a quad. Cheaper than renting a double.”
“Saving money sounds good to me.” As did Chyna’s being the one to show a passport at check-in.
“Cool, then.” Chyna stood and stretched. “I’m gonna walk to the bar car and get a Coke. You want anything?”
“I’m good, thanks. I brought a sandwich. By the way,” she added as Chyna turned to go, “what are you getting your master’s in?”
“Performance. I’m applying to schools that offer MFA programs.” She froze, then did some quick, expert robotic moves. “Please don’t hate me for being a mime!”
Then, giggling, she hobbled, bent over in imitation of an elderly woman, to the end of the car, leaving Anna to quickly bend over, too—over one of her books, pretending to read. But she couldn’t concentrate. She wondered what Chyna would say if she knew what a great performance artist Anna had learned to be, if she knew “Lisa” was probably older than her own mother.
Chapter 6
“Now, Lisa, put on these shoes and walk across the floor.”
Anna slipped into a pair of
red stiletto heels, the highest she’d worn for at least two decades, and tentatively made her way across the industrial-carpeted floor of the gym in the old Gloucestershire manor house. Standing, arms akimbo, watching her every move, was a woman her age or older named Gilda, with a dancer’s lithe body. She wore, as did Anna, tights and a leotard, leg warmers, and shoes with six-inch heels.
“No, no, no. That simply won’t do,” Gilda pronounced when Anna had crossed the room and returned. “You look like a female impersonator who’s spent his entire life in a pair of motorcycle boots, pet. Do it again, but like this.”
Anna watched Gilda as she walked with sexy, sinuous steps, then smaller, faster steps. “You see? No bending forward. You aren’t walking into the wind. Lead with the thighs and let your bottom sway behind them.”
“May I have a glass of water first, please?”
Gilda shook her head with the firmness of a drill sergeant. “Break’s in fifteen minutes. Now, walk.” Anna was equally unstable walking, running, even just standing. By the time the lesson had finished, she’d decided she’d just have to insist on being a hot young thing in flats. Plenty of younger women everywhere wore ballet slippers and Doc Martens and UGGs. She’d have to—even if it meant accessorizing with a fake ankle cast as an excuse.
From Movement with Gilda, she moved on to a small meeting room, probably used for Barton Pharmaceuticals’ retreat seminars, and Speech with Sam, a fast-talking New Yorker in his forties who specialized in coaching British actors to sound more American. “I’m not used to working with someone who already sounds homegrown but needs to pass for younger, so it should be fun.”
By the end of the hour, Anna was speaking faster and dropping more g’s at the ends of words, which didn’t seem like all that big a deal. She thought she sounded young enough until Sam told her, “Your voice is too low and mellow, Lisa. That comes with maturity. Let’s see if we can push it up an octave. Everyone’s voice deepens with age, so a younger woman’s would have a higher pitch than yours.”
Younger Page 7