An Anonymous Girl(10)

Theater was what drew me to this city. My dream caught hold early, when I was a young girl and my mother took me to see a local production of The Wizard of Oz. Afterward, the actors came to the lobby and I realized that all of them—Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion, the Wicked Witch—were just ordinary people. They’d been transformed by chalky face powder and freckles drawn on with an eyebrow pencil and green-tinted foundation.

After I left college and moved to New York, I started at the Bobbi Brown counter at Bloomingdale’s while I auditioned as a makeup artist for every play I could find on Backstage.com. That’s when I learned the pros carry their contour wheels, foundations, and false eyelashes in black accordian-style cases instead of duffel bags. At first I worked sporadically on small shows, where I was sometimes paid in comp tickets, but after a couple of years, the jobs came easier and the audiences got bigger and I was able to quit the department store. I began to get referrals, and I even signed with an agent, albeit one who also represented a magician who performed at trade shows.

That period of my life was pure exhilaration—the intense camaraderie with actors and other crew members, the triumph when the audience rose to their feet and applauded our creation—but I earn a lot more now doing freelance makeup. And I realized long ago that not everyone’s dreams are meant to come true.

Still, I can’t help thinking back to that time and wondering if Gene is the same.

When we were introduced, he took my hand in his. His voice was deep and robust, as befitting someone who worked in the theater. He was already on his way to making it big, even though he was only in his late thirties. He got there even faster than I anticipated.

The first thing he ever said to me, as I tried to keep from blushing: You’ve got a great smile.

The memories always come back in this order: Me bringing him a cup of coffee and nudging him awake from his catnap in a seat in the darkened auditorium. Him showing me a Playbill, fresh from the printer, and pointing out my name in the credits. The two of us alone in his office, him holding my gaze as he slowly unzipped his pants.

And the last thing he ever said to me, as I tried to hold back tears: Get home safe, okay? Then he hailed a cab and gave the driver a twenty.

Does he ever think of me? I wonder.

Enough, I tell myself. I need to move on.

But if I go home, I know I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll be replaying scenes from our final night together and what I could have done differently again, or thinking about Dr. Shields’s study.

I look back at the bar. Then I pull open the door and stride in. I see the dark-haired banker playing darts with his friends.

I walk directly up to him. He’s only an inch or two taller than I am in my low boots. “Hi again,” I say.

“Hi.” He draws out the word, turning it into a question.

“I don’t really have a boyfriend. Can I buy you a beer?”

“That was a quick relationship,” he says, and I laugh.

“Let me get the first round,” he says. He hands his darts to one of his friends.

“How about a Fireball shot?” I suggest.

As he approaches the bar, I see Sanjay look over at me and I avert my gaze. I hope he didn’t hear me when I told Lizzie I was going home.

When the banker comes back with our shots, he clinks his glass to mine. “I’m Noah.”

I take a sip, feeling cinnamon burn my lips. I know I’ll have no interest in seeing Noah again after tonight. So I say the first name that pops into my head: “I’m Taylor.”


I lift up the blanket and slowly ease out from under it, looking around. It takes me a second to remember I’m on the couch in Noah’s apartment. We ended up here after a few more shots at another bar. When we realized we’d both skipped dinner and were starving, Noah ran out to the deli at the corner.

“Don’t move,” he’d ordered, pouring me a glass of wine. “I’ll be back in two minutes. I need eggs to make French toast.”

I must have fallen asleep almost immediately. I guess he took off my boots and covered me with a blanket instead of waking me. He also left me a note propped on the coffee table: Hey, sleepyhead, I’ll cook that French toast for you in the morning.

I’m still in my jeans and top; all we did was kiss. I grab my boots and coat and tiptoe to the door. It creaks when I open it and I flinch, but I don’t hear any signs of Noah stirring in his bedroom. I ease it shut slowly, then slip on my boots and hurry down his hallway. I take the elevator to the lobby, smoothing my hair and rubbing beneath my eyes to remove any smudged mascara while I descend the nineteen flights.

The doorman looks up from his cell phone. “Good night, miss.”

I give him a little salute and try to orient myself once I’m outside. The nearest subway stop is four blocks away. It’s almost midnight, and a few people are milling around. I head for the station, digging my MetroCard out of my wallet as I walk.

My face stings in the cold air and I reach up to touch a tender patch on my chin from where Noah’s stubble rubbed against it when we kissed.

The discomfort is somehow comforting.





CHAPTER


SIX


Sunday, November 18

Your next session begins as your first one did: Ben meets you in the lobby and escorts you to Room 214. As you climb the stairs, you ask if the format will be the same as yesterday’s. He responds affirmatively, but can’t provide you with much more information. He isn’t permitted to share what little he knows; he has also signed a nondisclosure agreement.