Younger

by Suzanne Munshower

  Tiffany’s Pacha friend emphasized the huge gap between Anna and the rest of them. He had a shaved head and was multiply pierced and heavily gauged—his earlobes stretched to hold big steel plugs. She didn’t hear his name but supposed it was “Wolf,” since tattoos of wolves blanketed his skin, along with lightning bolts, zigzag stripes, and what appeared to be barcodes. He showcased his body art with a muscle T and skateboarder cut-offs.

  “Sorry you can’t go in the VIP room now, baby,” he was shouting at Tiffany as he led them to a staircase. “Crazy-K’s got a group there. But I snagged you a table in the other VIP space upstairs.”

  “Who’s Crazy-K?” Anna asked Lorrayne when they were seated on a U-shaped banquette big enough for ten, overlooking the still-uncrowded dance floor below as well as the smaller one on their level.

  “You kiddin’? And you from Manhattan? Just the hottest New York rapper and DJ! You gotta start gettin’ out more.”

  Everyone ordered extravagant cocktails, so she compromised with a mojito instead of a Cabernet. “In a tall glass with lots of ice.” She’d nurse one along. No way she could risk getting smashed when she was Tanya.

  She didn’t want to risk anything, so she kept her mouth shut and peered from their roost at the dance floors as the club started filling up. It was after midnight, and she was sleepily aware that at Pacha the night had just begun.

  I lived like this once, she thought. All those New York nights at the Limelight and Ones. How had she ever done it? The noise was ungodly. The bass line of the music came up through the floor into her feet and thumped at a decibel level prohibiting any conversation other than shouting in someone’s ear. She was relieved to see most people dancing exactly as her coach Kenny had taught her.

  As it got more crowded, it got hotter. Before she knew it, her glass was empty and she was having another. Tiffany had disappeared completely, Lorrayne was over on the dance floor, and Anezka seemed to be having—or trying to have—a bellowed conversation with Dawn. She wondered how long before she could politely say good night.

  Then an extremely good-looking young guy was smiling down at her, holding out his hand and gesturing to the dance floor. Why not? She took his hand and stood as he yelled into her ear. “Downstairs. With the big kids.”

  On the ground floor, it was all lights and music . . . and people, a pulsing wave of dancers, hundreds of them. As he pulled her onto the floor, he leaned down and shouted, “Rob.”

  “Tanya.”

  “Let’s bust some moves.”

  She loved it—for two songs. Then, winded, she thankfully allowed Rob to gently pull her off the dance floor, and they snaked their way out of the crowd. He led her through the ground-floor bar to a door that led outside and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. “Fresh air? Fag?”

  “Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

  “Okay, Tanya, air for you, fag for me, coming right up.”

  It was the smallest of small talk, but Rob was bright, witty, and hugely attractive in a Robert Pattinson sort of way. He was, he said, “a nerd extraordinaire” who worked in software. “I started out as a gamer, geeking out developing platforms even before I went to university. As soon as I graduated two years ago—University of Bristol with a degree in computer sciences—I was recruited by Innoscom, big in security and app development. I moved to London to work for them, and now here I am talking to Tanya at Pacha. Your turn.”

  She shrugged. “American. New in town, job in marketing for an upcoming cosmetic line. Staying in my aunt’s apartment while I decide how long to stick around. And not Queen of the Clubbers. I came with friends, just to check it out. Now it’s almost two o’clock, and I’m about to fall asleep.”

  “Aw, no, don’t tell me you’re gonna ditch me,” he groaned, but he was grinning. “Don’t worry. I’m here with some guys from the office celebrating a promotion, and I’m a Pacha virgin, just like you.” He gave her a slow, sexy smile. “Why don’t we compare notes at dinner next week?”

  She’d forgotten he was flirting with Tanya, not chatting with Anna, and was so startled she just said, “Oh, okay, sure.” He reached into an inside pocket of his hoodie. “Here’s my card. You got one?”

  “Upstairs. I left my bag with my friends.”

  “C’mon, I’ll go with you, then make sure the club calls a minicab. Too late for black cabs now.”

  When she showed up at the VIP booth with Mr. Hawt Dude and grabbed her bag and jacket, she received knowing smirks. They figure I’m going home with this guy, she thought in horror. Then again, that might not be such a bad way of establishing her youthful bona fides. So she smiled at Rob and shouted, “Ready when you are.”

  As they turned to leave, she looked back and winked. Even over the music, she could hear Lorrayne’s raucous laugh.

  Chapter 11

  No sooner had Anna settled at her desk with a copy of the Guardian and a cappuccino on Monday than her phone rang. It was Eleanor, saying Mr. Barton would like to see her.

  When would she stop wondering if she was in trouble when Pierre asked to see her? As it turned out, Barton wanted to invite her to dinner Friday. “Marina’s been asking to meet you,” he said.

  “She knows?”

  “Of course. She’s on the board of the company. Not that the rest of the board knows, but she’s also my eminently trustworthy wife.” He paused, eyeing her tight mini, neon tights, and UGGs. “I’d suggest something a bit more, um, toned down in the garment department. Marina likes establishment restaurants.”

  “Got it.”

  “Also, please leave Wednesday afternoon free. Someone else wants to meet you.”

  “Aren’t I the popular one this week? Anyone special?”

  “Anyone who gets to meet you and know your story has to be special. As I’ve said, with the degree of industrial espionage in our business, we can’t be too careful. I won’t be here tomorrow, so let’s say we’ll meet downstairs Wednesday at three, all right?”

  “You’re the boss,” she said smartly. “Anything else?”

  “No. Just try to write more in the diary. You aren’t sharing enough of your experiences. The ‘You, only YOUNGER’ strap line is terrific, by the way. We’re filing to trademark that as well as ‘YOUNGER’ with the you in boldface. Very clever. And when you next email Richard Myerson, you should ask how much press coverage Madame X is going to get in the States. Remember, he doesn’t know you’re aware it’s a success, so your lack of curiosity might strike him as odd. And please edit Becca’s release announcing the upcoming UK launch. It needs your magic.”

  “Right. And now that you mentioned my magic”—she took a sheet from the small notepad he always kept on his desk, scrawled on it, then handed it to him—“if you don’t have these on hand, could you order them for me? I may not look the average age of a future Madame X buyer anymore, but I still love the cosmetics. And don’t worry: I didn’t choose any ‘old lady colors.’ If anyone here wonders how I got Madame X before them, I’ll explain that I’m a test case.”

  As I am, she added to herself. As indeed I am.

  When she came down to the lobby Wednesday, she’d expected to see the Bentley waiting at the curb, but Barton said, “We’ll hail a cab.”

  “Are we hiding from Aleksei?” she asked, the memory of the chauffeur and his boss squabbling still vivid. Had he been fired?

  “He just has other things to do. And,” he added portentously, “this meeting is top secret.” He put his hand out as a taxi approached. “In city traffic, it’s harder to follow a cab than a Bentley.” To the driver, he said, “Vauxhall, please, to the station.”

  “We’re catching a train?” she asked, but he just shook his head. She sighed. Okay, there was a lot of industrial espionage, but did it justify this paranoia? Then, reminding herself that YOUNGER had erased three decades from her face and that BarPharm stood to make gazillions off it, sh
e said nothing as they drove south to the Thames.

  Barton guided her from the station through back streets to an old pub more attractive than the neighborhood surrounding it. It was about half full, its clientele seeming to be those who finished work early—bank tellers, shift workers, salespeople—and those who didn’t work at all, retirees and red-nosed career tipplers. Barton chose a small table in the back, which clearly had once been the fancier saloon bar, with cushioned seats and panelled walls.

  “I’m having a half of lager. What can I get for you?” he asked.

  If he was drinking, so would she. “Half pint of cider, please.”

  After he returned with the drinks, he surreptitiously checked his watch. When his expression changed to welcoming anticipation, she turned her head to see a man heading for the table. He was very much the British boffin: a posh civil servant type in his forties, with a smooth, pink-cheeked face, sharply pointed nose, and conservatively short pale blond hair. He carried a furled umbrella and old-fashioned brown briefcase and wore wingtip shoes and a dark pin-striped three-piece suit. Yes, as British as the Union Jack; if bowler hats hadn’t been passé, he might have sported one.

  Barton stood to shake hands. “Tanya, I want to introduce Martin Kelm. Martin, something to drink?”

  “Half of bitter would suit me fine, Pierre. Thank you.” He sat on the bench next to Anna and across from Barton’s seat.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this meeting, Tanya,” he said, stressing the name to indicate he knew who she really was, “to meeting you in the flesh.”

  “In the flesh?”

  “I saw photos of your progress earlier on. And might I say, you look fantastic? Well done, indeed!”

  Barton returned then with his drink, and Kelm raised the glass. “A toast then? To youth. Always, to youth.” He winked. Anna disliked him already.

  “I wanted you to meet Martin as much as Martin wanted to meet you, Tanya,” Barton said. “We’re about to begin a new phase of the project, and you should know why secrecy is vital. Plus, you’ve raised a lot of questions about the necessity of looking so much younger and the new identity, questions that deserve an answer.”

  She waited. He seemed uncertain, and the new arrival smoothly took over. “I’m here, Tanya, in an official capacity as a representative of Secret Intelligence Service, SIS—what many still refer to as MI6 although we encompass MI5, as well.” He reached into his breast pocket and surreptitiously flashed an official ID card in a leather holder. “You might have guessed that the British government was involved when it was so easy for you to get a UK passport.”

  She stared at him, stunned. Had she put her brain in cold storage? Why hadn’t she been more curious as to how Barton had obtained the Tanya Avery passport? “No,” she admitted quietly. “I didn’t guess.”

  “Don’t be frightened.” Kelm chuckled. “We’re not asking you to fly to Afghanistan.” He eyed her short skirt. “I doubt you’d be let in anyway, as you’re so obviously subversive. My little joke—albeit not a very good one,” he added at her stony response.

  “Barton Pharmaceuticals has been refining YOUNGER as an SIS project. No, Mr. Barton has not been lying to you, although your expression shows you believe otherwise. YOUNGER is exactly what it purports to be, a skincare rejuvenation product for women. But it will be available not in two but in three strengths: one for consumers, one for physicians, and one for Her Majesty’s Government only.”

  “Which have I been using?”

  Barton answered. “All three. We started you off on Formula One”—Kelm chuckled—“which is Martin’s little auto racing joke. It’s the formula that will be utilized by SIS exactly as we used it for you, with a laser boost to speed its effectiveness. Then, the week before you came to London, we switched you to the medical grade, the one that will be marketed to physicians—we needed to see if the effects of Formula One would wear off when replaced by the milder Formula Two. We’ll soon be switching you to the retail formula to see if the effects are still maintained with that and a quarterly Formula Two application. We’ll be providing you with products on a monthly basis, perhaps adjusting the ingredients and ratios. For example, we’re adjusting the fragrance based on your comments.”

  “Now that I’ve been tricked into helping you and to keep me from walking out, tell me, what’s the objective?”

  “It’s in aid of the security of Great Britain and, I should add, of its ally, the United States,” Kelm said stiffly. “The CIA is aware of the work Mr. Barton is doing and will be a beneficiary of it. To cut to the chase, as you Americans say, Formula One will enable us to return nonsecure agents to fieldwork.”

  “Nonsecure? You mean, spies whose covers have been blown?”

  “Ah, a reader of espionage novels, I see.” Kelm’s chuckle, Anna realized, was not to be taken as an indication of inanity or even good humor. His eyes remained wary. “Yes, people who at one time would have needed to come in from the cold—to keep this conversation in the literary tradition—will be able to return to active status.”

  “Wouldn’t plastic surgery do the trick?”

  “Plastic surgery? As someone in the beauty industry, you must realize it leaves much to be desired. It’s easy for women to cover the signs—scars, discolorations, and such—but impossible for men, who can’t count on foundation and eye shadow to hide the traces. Take foreheads, if you like. There’s no way to hide a forehead lift on a man with thinning hair other than with a hairpiece or implants, and those are dead giveaways to age as well.

  “Nor does everyone want to look young forever. An agent might be fifty years old, needing and wanting to do another job or two before taking his pension while preferring to look like his real self, his ‘old self,’ if you like, at his daughter’s wedding one day. We’re speaking of a temporary, long- or short-term physical change that will save lives.”

  “So that’s the reason I’ve lost thirty years, because agents will do so?”

  Kelm nodded, and Barton at last found his voice. “When we first spoke, um, Tanya, I wasn’t sure the government was a hundred percent on board. But it’s now official, and it’s all the more cause for being very careful, for extra security.”

  “And Aleksei? Is he your bodyguard?” she asked bluntly.

  He looked puzzled. “No, he’s what he appears to be: my driver. This is still primarily a cosmetic skincare line. I hardly need bodyguards.”

  “We just want to make sure you’re cautious, and that you understand the reason you’ve been helped to look younger than YOUNGER’s customers ever would and realize what an important role you’re playing. And that you report any strange activities to Mr. Barton,” Kelm interjected.

  “Strange activities, like what? Being stalked?”

  Again, Kelm chortled. “If you ever get stalked, it will obviously be by an admirer smitten by your youthful good looks.” Smitten? This guy was as bad as Becca with the antiquated language. “So, strange activities.” He steepled his fingers. “People you don’t know well who start asking prying questions or know more about you than they should. Anyone overly interested in BarPharm. Anything odd you might hear from your stateside friends. And do be more careful with your emails and so on. Pierre says you sent him a diary entry from your personal account. You mustn’t do that. Your personal account is solely for updating your US friends. Use your BarPharm account for all Tanya emails and Dropbox for diary entries and any secure information. Is that understood?”

  “I’ll be more careful in the future,” she said, being serious, not sarcastic. Someone getting hold of the wrong email due to her sloppiness could leave her owing BarPharm a fortune.

  Kelm said somberly, “If there is a future.”

  At Anna’s stare, he went on, “What I’m saying is that if you wish to get out now, I can provide an Official Secrets Act document for you to sign and you’re free to return to your old looks and old
life. Pierre and I have discussed this. You would get to keep the salary you’ve earned thus far, from both your roles at BarPharm, Tanya’s and your own—but no more. You would still be bound by the confidentiality agreement.”

  “And if I stay?”

  “If you stay, it’s business as usual. Unless there’s a crisis, which I don’t expect, you’ll never need our protection. You finish your work here, then do and be whomever you choose, wherever you wish.”

  “But if I left now, I couldn’t return to the States looking like this.”

  “Stop YOUNGER, and in just a couple weeks in a discreet location, probably the one where you received your training, you’ll go back to looking almost as you did upon first meeting Mr. Barton. A bit younger, thanks to the laser and fillers. Naturally, you’d be completely off the project, which would mean no more YOUNGER products for you until the consumer formula hits the shops, when you can buy it like anyone else.

  “If you stay, your contract will expire in—let’s see—about nine months or so, and you’ll receive a lifetime supply of whichever formula of YOUNGER you want.” He stood. “Pierre will let me know your decision on Monday, so give it serious consideration until then.” He nodded to Barton and was gone.

  Anna drained the dregs of her cider. “So, Pierre, all this work—the Madame X campaign, the diary, the coaching—no more than a charade the whole time? Helping out the good ol’ MI6, Miss Tanya Moneypenny?”

  “No. Not at all! Everything I’ve told you is true. Do you think I hired someone to play my mother? Don’t be absurd. If you don’t believe me, go to Paris. Visit her!”

  “I might do that one weekend.” Anna stood up. “Do you need me back at the office? If not, I’ll just head home now.”

  He checked his watch. “You go ahead,” he said. “I might have another before I move on.”

  She knew he’d be on his cell phone to Kelm as soon as she was out the door. But SIS, MI6, or not, she had no desire to stick around and spy on anyone.