You pause.
“To be honest, I really didn’t understand what made the photographs special. So I asked this guy who seemed really into them why he liked them.”
A hitch in the pulse. An almost uncontrollable surge of queries.
“I see. And what did he say?”
You recount the exchange.
It is as though Thomas’s deep voice is reverberating through the office, mingling with your higher tones. When you spoke, did he notice the rounded cupid’s bow on your upper lip? The smoky sweep of your eyelashes?
A slight ache forms in my hand. My grasp on the pen is eased.
The next question must be chosen with exquisite care.
“And then did your conversation with him continue?”
“Yeah, he was nice.”
A brief, involuntary smile alights on your face. The memory now gripping you is a pleasurable one.
“He came up to me a minute later when I was looking at the next photograph.”
There were only two possible outcomes in this scenario. The first was that Thomas would pay no attention to you. The second, that he would.
Although the latter was repeatedly envisioned, its power is nevertheless devastating.
Thomas, with his sandy hair and the smile that starts in his eyes, the one that promises everything will be okay, could not resist you.
Our marriage dwelled within a lie; it was built on a foundation of quicksand.
The swelling rage and deep disappointment do not reveal themselves. Not yet.
You continue to describe the conversation about the reflection of the rider in the motorcycle mirror. You are stopped when you begin to detail how the alarm on your phone sounded.
You are jumping ahead to your exit from the museum. You must be led backward, to the room where you and Thomas met.
The question has to be asked, even though it seems a foregone conclusion that Thomas found you attractive, that he sought a way to prolong your contact.
You have been trained to be honest in this space. Your foundational sessions have led us to this pivotal moment.
“The sandy-haired man . . . Would you—”
You are shaking your head.
“Huh?” you interject. “You mean the man I was talking to about the photographs?”
It is imperative that any confusion be eliminated.
“Yes,” you are told. “The one in the bomber jacket.”
Your expression grows perplexed. You shake your head again.
Your next words send the room spinning.
Something has gone deeply wrong.
“His hair wasn’t light,” you say. “It was dark brown. Almost black, really.”
You never met Thomas at the museum. The man you encountered was someone else entirely.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
Friday, December 14
On the surface, it’s business as usual: the Germ-X, the Altoids, my arrival five minutes before the appointed time.
It’s Friday night, and I have two clients left before I wrap up work. But neither of these appointments was scheduled by BeautyBuzz.
These are women Dr. Shields has selected, as part of her study.
When I went to her office yesterday after the museum, Dr. Shields seemed a little confused about my conversation with the guy in the bomber jacket. Then she excused herself to go the ladies’ room. When she came back a few minutes later, I tried to tell her about the rest of my visit, how I put more money in the collection box and saw no sign of the accident when I left the exhibit.
But Dr. Shields cut me off; she only wanted to focus on this new experiment.
She explained again that these women had been subjects in an earlier morality survey and had signed a waiver agreeing to a broad range of possible follow-up trials. But they don’t know why I’m really going to show up at their homes.
At least I do, or I think I do. This is the first time I’ve been told what is being evaluated before I go into an experiment.
I’m relieved I’m not going in blind, but it still feels strange. Maybe that’s because the stakes seem so small. Dr. Shields wants to know if these clients will tip me more generously since the service is free. I’m to collect some basic demographic data on them—their ages, their marital status, their occupations—for her to include when she writes a paper on her research, or whatever it is she’s using the information for.
I wonder why she needs me to confirm these details. Wouldn’t she or her assistant, Ben, have gotten it prior to letting them into the study, like they did with me?
Before I enter the Chelsea apartment building and take the elevator to the twelfth floor, I reach into my pocket for my phone.
Dr. Shields has stressed the importance of one more instruction.
I press the button to dial her number.
The call is connected.
“Hi, I’m about to go in,” I say.
“I’m going to mute myself now, Jessica,” she says.
A moment later I don’t hear anything, not even her breathing.
I press Speaker.
When Reyna opens the door to her apartment, my first thought is that she is pretty much what I expected when I envisioned the other women in Dr. Shields’s study: early thirties, with shiny dark hair in a blunt cut at her collarbone. Her apartment is furnished with an artistic flair—a giant, swirling stack of books serves as an end table, the walls are a rich maroon, and a funky menorah that looks like an antique rests on the windowsill.
For the next forty-five minutes, I try to weave all the questions Dr. Shields needs me to ask. I learn Reyna is thirty-four, originally from Austin, and that she’s a jewelry designer. She points to a few of the pieces she is wearing as I select a dove-gray eyeshadow, including the eternity ring she designed for her wedding to her partner.
“Eleanor and I have matching ones,” she says. She’d already told me that they’re attending a friend’s thirty-fifth birthday party tonight.
Reyna is so easy to talk to I almost forget this isn’t one of my usual jobs.
We chat a little more, then she goes to check her reflection in a mirror.
When she comes back, she hands me two twenties. “I can’t believe I won this,” she says. “Which company do you work for again?”
I hesitate. “One of the big ones, but I’ve been thinking about going freelance.”
“I’ll definitely call you again,” Reyna says. “I still have your number.”
But that number is to the phone Dr. Shields had me use. I just smile and pack up quickly. When I’m back on the sidewalk, I immediately take Dr. Shields off speakerphone and put my cell phone to my ear.
“She gave me forty dollars,” I say. “Most clients only tip ten.”
“Wonderful,” Dr. Shields says. “How long until you’re at the next appointment?”
I check the address. It’s just a quick cab ride up the West Side Highway.
“It’s in Hell’s Kitchen,” I say. I’m shivering; the temperature has plummeted in the past hour. “So I should be there by around seven-thirty.”
“Perfect,” she says. “Call me when you arrive.”
The second woman is unlike any other client I’ve worked on. It’s hard to imagine how she would have gotten into Dr. Shields’s study.
Tiffani has bleached blond hair and is rail thin, but not like the fancy Upper East Side moms.