Younger

by Suzanne Munshower

  Checking online, she found an early twentieth-century exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery. That would do for a Sunday outing. It meant going to the West End, but the risk of running into George and Jan at a museum was small. Once cultured, their artistic interests were now limited to hot buttons. Picasso! Monet! Hockney! Only artists who’d be billed above the title as if they were A-list actors counted.

  At least she had accomplished what she had set out to do after calling it quits with David, she told herself as she headed out. She’d created a career out of nothing, channeled her dramatic flair into her advertising work. Still . . . for what? To end up in this sick charade? C’est à rire. It was laughable indeed.

  The exhibit, crowded on a wet Sunday, was reassuring, like visiting old friends: the Woolfs, the Sitwells, Roger Fry. Anna wandered on afterward, through permanent collections of Victorians and Georgians, the posers and the poseurs.

  She was making her way toward the exit when she paused for a second look at Lucian Freud’s searing self-portrait from the ’60s, unaware that someone had slipped up behind her until she heard a voice close to her ear. “He stripped a face down, didn’t he? Even his own. Down to its sinews, I’d say.”

  “Mr. Kelm.” She flushed as if caught spraying graffiti. “You’re a portrait fan?”

  “Of course. People are infinitely more interesting than fields or dead pheasants, aren’t they? And I’m a great fan of Freud’s—Lucian only, not his grandfather Sigmund. He’s the master of depicting how we’re betrayed by our flesh. And the aging of it,” he added, with a bright smile. He took Anna’s elbow. “Allow me to buy you a drink.” It wasn’t a question.

  They took the lift up to the restaurant in silence with three other people.

  At the bar, she ordered a glass of pricey Sancerre. Hang the expense; let MI6 spring for something from the top shelf. Spy Boy had a mineral water.

  Today the meticulous Mr. Kelm sported a blue shirt, discreetly patterned tie, and clubby-looking blazer. He made a show of raising his glass of water. “In Italy, one isn’t allowed to clink glasses that don’t hold alcohol,” he noted.

  “One more reason to drink, then. Ah, very nice wine, thank you.”

  “Everything going all right?”

  She nodded.

  “Mr. Barton is pleased with your work,” he noted.

  “Oh?” She wondered what details Barton reported but knew asking was of no use.

  “As you probably figured out, much of what he asks is as a favor to us—how the age change affects you, your confidence in being accepted for whom you appear to be.”

  She nodded. “I worked that out.”

  “I appreciate your agreeing to stay on the project. I understand that you’re bored with the diary and perhaps even the impersonation you consider unnecessary. There’s a possibility we can cut your contract short by several months, so you could concentrate on the YOUNGER campaign and then go home sometime in the winter. Would that please you? You’d receive the same remuneration. Barton’s assured me of that.”

  “Would it please me?” She was sure he had his own reasons for asking, which made her obstinate about giving him nothing. “It’s hard to think about the future. Right now, I am who I am, doing what I do today and tomorrow.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said brusquely. “That’s the right attitude. And keep in mind that Barton Pharmaceuticals will ensure lifelong delivery of YOUNGER products to you. If you so desire, of course.”

  “If I so desire?”

  “Right now it behooves us that you continue to be Tanya, of course. But after this, you can be Anna at any age you choose. As long as you complete your work satisfactorily. You understand this?”

  She stared at him. She had no doubt he was here because of her last diary entry. Somehow what he was saying sounded like a veiled threat, but she wasn’t sure why. Sitting here, having this conversation, made her feel threatened enough in itself. “I think so.”

  They both gazed out the window, at the gray sky, almost palpable with unshed rain. He gestured. “Why I don’t like landscapes. Too bleak, so many of them.” Turning back to her, he said, “Mr. Barton worries you’re a bit obsessed with a woman who worked for him last year named Olga Novrosky.”

  Ah, the other reason for this meeting. “Hardly obsessed. Wouldn’t you be curious if the person who had your office before you had died mysteriously?” She laughed dryly. “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t be, but you know what I mean.”

  He ignored her joke. “We checked her out. No, no, not because she was involved in our product’s development—she wasn’t—but because we feared there might have been a relationship between her and Barton, something messy.”

  “Messy relationship? You mean an affair?”

  “It’s been known to happen. This Olga turned out to be exactly what she’d appeared to be: a young woman who wanted work experience in England and had been recommended by a friend of Mrs. Barton’s. No affair, no conspiracy, just a foreigner on her own. This can be a cold city. Not just the sky.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And you? You’ve made friends here? You aren’t lonely and depressed?”

  “And likely to hurl myself under a train?” She snorted. “Look, I see this as a temporary work assignment. I could be introducing an American breakfast cereal in Slovakia or a shampoo brand in Spain. I like what I do, I like the people I’m working with, and I get out enough to not feel isolated. Just the other night, I had dinner with the Bartons, for instance.”

  “Ah, yes? And how was that?”

  She was sure Kelm already knew about Jan. “Fine,” she said firmly. “I can now attest to The Ivy’s shepherd’s pie being beyond any ordinary shepherd’s wildest dream.” She finished her wine.

  Throwing a bill and some coins on top of the check, he stood. “Come, I’ll see you to the front door.”

  “You’re staying?”

  “I’d only just arrived when I noticed you. I have some time to kill before a meeting.” He pointed to himself with both hands. “This is not my usual weekend attire.”

  As they exited the elevator, he smiled blandly. “Enjoy the rest of your Sunday, Miss Avery. And don’t worry so much.” His smile widened but still didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s an order.”

  The sky opened up as she speed-walked to the Underground. By the time she’d reached her apartment, water was running down her neck and squelching in her shoes. Shivering, she stripped down, then took a hot shower. It was only mid-August and turning chilly already. She missed the LA weather. How did the British survive?

  She’d left her iPhone at home—she often did, carrying only her “official” BarPharm BlackBerry in her bag. Now, swaddled in the thick terry robe that had come with the apartment, she checked it and saw that a text had come in from David: I had a great time yesterday, she read. Still tied up, but hope we’re still on for September 2. Your treat!

  Her heart soared as she texted back, Details soon! Obviously, this couldn’t go on, but she wasn’t prepared to give him up yet. Just one more time, she thought, then I’ll cool it.

  The following week was like the best days of working on accounts in California, knee-deep in Madame X launch prep, busy but exhilarating. Barton wasn’t in the office, so she couldn’t ask him about her “chance” encounter with Kelm.

  After work one day, she had a curry with Anezka and Lorrayne, feigning interest in their chatter about clubs and guys, going along with their teasing about Rob. Better they should think there might be a romance there so they wouldn’t expect her to go out dancing with them again. It had been fun once, but for a fifty-seven-year-old, once was precisely enough.

  Barton remained out of the office so she didn’t see him until the following Tuesday; she’d been told by Eleanor the day before that Mr. Barton couldn’t see her until three, and she made sure she arrived on the dot, closing the door b
ehind her.

  “Nice work on the new materials,” he said. “I approved them all this morning and told Eleanor to coordinate with Becca on release dates.”

  “Good.” She sat down across from the desk. “Hey, you’ll never guess who I bumped into last Sunday.”

  He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Your friend Martin Kelm.”

  “Martin Kelm?” His voice rose in surprise.

  “At the National Portrait Gallery, of all places.”

  “At the National Portrait Gallery?”

  “You told him I’d asked you about Olga,” she said, which snapped him out of echo mode.

  “Did I? I may have, but I certainly—well, it never occurred to me he’d speak to you about it. I might have mentioned that you had seemed a trifle worried.”

  “I’m ‘a trifle worried’ that you’re taking the time to speak to Kelm about me on a weekend and that I’m being followed by MI6 when I go to a museum, Pierre.” The heat rose in her face. “I signed on to work on a skincare account, if you recall, not to be Mata-fucking-Hari.” Only as she bit off the words did she realize how angry she was.

  He exhaled loudly, plainly flustered. “I’m sorry. I’ll ask him not to bother you again.”

  “What else does he know about me? Does he have people following me all the time? Was that couple pretending to be Russian tourists or whatever actually just his British agents on my tail? Do they trail me to the movies, to Marks and Spencer to buy knickers, to The Ivy?”

  “Please don’t get upset. What makes you so sure he actually followed you to the museum?”

  “He made it quite clear he knew I was ready to leave rather than just arriving. And I’m not upset, so I’d appreciate your not telling Martin Kelm I’m upset, all right? In fact, I’d prefer if you don’t even mention to him that I said anything. And if, in the future, you don’t pass along any comments I might make that aren’t directly related to YOUNGER. Is that asking too much?”

  “No. Not at all. I certainly don’t want Kelm invading your privacy.” His look of concern seemed genuine. In fact, for the normally unruffled Pierre Barton, he appeared disturbed.

  “And what’s all this about being able to get out of my contract sooner than expected, with full pay?”

  “What?” His surprise struck her as both genuine and dismayed, but he quickly recovered. “Well, yes, there’s a chance.” He cleared his throat and avoided her eyes. “We should know in a month or so.”

  She nodded and stood up. She wasn’t going to push her luck by asking anything else. She remembered what Becca had said about Olga bugging Barton.

  You’re just being paranoid, she told herself. But she no longer believed anything she said.

  She had to admit she’d be thrilled if this whole YOUNGER charade wrapped up ahead of schedule. She often had a hard time concentrating on her work and feared that after the US Madame X launch, the UK one would be anticlimactic. She didn’t miss her real age, but she did miss her real life. Except for David, and that was another one of those things she didn’t want to think about.

  The incidents with Jan and Kelm left her deeply unsettled and anxious. By the time Friday rolled around, she wasn’t up for more than grabbing a takeout chicken baguette on the way home, then tugging off her jacket and plopping herself down at the living room coffee table to eat. Only when the sandwich was gone did she go to the kitchen and pour herself wine, wondering if this was how Olga Novrosky had spent her evenings, alone and self-pitying. She felt irrationally annoyed with David for being busy this weekend.

  She took her glass of Vermentino and computer into the little office. What to write in the stupid, useless diary tonight, she wondered. Certainly not what was on her mind: that mounting evidence indicated she was being used, that she didn’t buy the official line about just another lugubrious Russian hurling herself under a speeding subway train. What would happen if she admitted that she was afraid of—in no particular order—her boss, her boss’s wife, her boss’s chauffeur, and MI6? Or that she was fast approaching the point where what had driven her to take this damned job—the threat of losing her house, her car, and her reputation—was starting to seem like a day at the beach compared to this bullshit?

  Enough sulking, she chided herself. Then she logged on to her personal email, and her heart sank.

  The first name was Allie’s and the subject line said, “Sad News.” Praying that the news wasn’t about Shawna or Allie herself, she clicked.

  I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Jan died last week in London, after the premiere of George’s movie. I would have told you sooner, but it’s been so upsetting for me dealing with George and the funeral that I couldn’t dredge up the energy. You know I told you Jan had been drinking a lot? It seems she got drunk at the after-party for the movie. George couldn’t leave the party, so he walked her outside to get a taxi to take her back to the hotel. But she stormed off on foot and he says he figured the walk might sober her up. When he got to The Savoy about an hour or so later, the police were in the lobby waiting for him.

  It looks like a garden-variety hit-and-run. Her blood alcohol was stratospheric, so she might have walked in front of a car—confused by people driving on the other side of the road in England. George says the police say it could have been an accident but that the driver was speeding, so panicked and kept going. No witnesses. Two kids on their way to a club tripped over what they thought was a wino until they saw all the blood.

  Anyhow, terrible all around. I’m so sorry to have to be telling you this. Jan wasn’t a pleasure to be around anymore, but we were hoping she’d get better. Do try to remember the best, funny side of her, as I’m determined to. You two were my oldest friends, and I’m missing you more than I can say right now. Wish you were here. When are you coming home?

  Love, The Other A.

  Anna sat back in the chair, taking a deep breath as the room spun before her eyes. How terrible! Could it be connected to her? Could Jan have been drinking even more than usual because she’d been so sure it was Anna at The Ivy? Worse, much worse, could Jan have been run down because she’d recognized Anna?

  She considered calling Nelson Dwyer to see what he knew, but she didn’t trust Mr. Tabloid any more than she did anyone else. What she needed to think about now was protecting herself, and she knew who might be able to give her some advice without her revealing what was going on. She texted him on her BarPharm phone. No reason to hide meeting Rob—if anything, he was convenient for hiding David’s presence in her life. Are you free for lunch Wednesday, my treat? she asked. Fab curry place between our offices.

  She didn’t know much of anything, but the news about Jan convinced her of one thing: she needed a solid plan, not just a bottle of hair dye, in case she had to get out of London quickly. She peered into her empty glass. Either that, or end up an alcoholic . . . or like Olga.

  In the bedroom, she decided against the suitcases she’d brought from LA, now stacked on top of the armoire. If she had to flee and was being watched, a large bag was too obvious. From the hall, she fetched the backpack she normally used for the gym. Into it, she put jeans, her Vans, a T-shirt, and a sweater, as well as two changes of socks and underwear and a nightie. In the bathroom, she prepared a small waterproof bag with toiletries. She’d just have to add her YOUNGER products, makeup, and assorted electronics if and when the time came. For all she knew, someone might be coming in to check the apartment when she was at work. This bag could pass for something she’d put together to change clothes at the gym. She knew she’d have to keep the phones and laptop hidden until the last minute.

  Finally, exhausted, she crawled into bed, hoping “the last minute” wasn’t coming closer, but fearing the clock was already ticking.

  Chapter 17

  The following Friday, looking at David’s ordinary if attractive face across the table at a homey restaurant in So
ho, she wondered why any man would want to spend money on plastic surgery to look younger. The lines on his face added depth to what had been pretty standard good looks. Now his face reflected character and experience. And hers? What had hers reflected before YOUNGER?

  His voice interrupted her musings. “Not to be a walking cliché, but a penny for ’em.”

  She blushed in spite of herself. “Honest? I was thinking how handsome you are.”

  It was his turn to redden. “In that case, you must consider Bob Hoskins a hunk of burnin’ love.”

  She laughed, just a little, then stopped as she saw the look in his eyes.

  “Your laugh is so like hers, like Anna’s. You’re sure you aren’t a ghost?” He sounded only half-kidding.

  She almost told him then. Almost. Instead, after a pause, she said lightly, “Oh, God, I hate my laugh! And I refuse to believe another person could have it. Or that you’d remember her laugh after all these years.”

  “You’re probably right. Meeting you has opened the floodgates of memory, I suppose. It’s been a rather emotional time for me.”

  Without thinking, she reached over and took his hand. He looked at her hand on his, patted it, then slowly pulled away, his face serious. “I wish I weren’t so much older than you, Tanya, but I am. And, you know, there are three of us here: you, me, and Anna. I was stupid not to have resolved that relationship. I did what she did: walked away and never looked back. You know what I’ve decided? Once I finish work on this pilot I’ll be doing at the start of December, I might go to the States and look for her. Or hire a detective in New York. I want to know what happened.”