An Anonymous Girl(36)

I tilt my phone so David can’t read the message:

Not him.

I blink in surprise, wondering what I’ve done wrong.

I flash back to when I first entered Dr. Shields’s study and she spoke to me through the computer.

I see three dots indicating Dr. Shields is still typing.

Her next instruction arrives:

Locate the man in the blue shirt sitting alone at a table to your right. Start up a conversation. Get him to flirt with you.

Dr. Shields must be close by. So why can’t I spot her?

“Was that your friend?” David asks, gesturing to my phone.

I take a sip of my wine, trying to stall so I can think a step ahead. My heart is beating faster than usual, and my mouth feels dry. I nod and take another sip but avoid making eye contact with him. Then I signal for the bill and extract two twenties from my wallet.

I glance over my shoulder at the guy in the blue shirt. I can’t bring myself to just walk over to him and use some cheesy pickup line. I try to remember some of the things men have said to me in bars, but my mind is blank.

I can’t even catch his eye and smile; he’s still looking down at his phone.

David touches my arm, stopping me from setting down the twenties. “Let me take care of that.” He nods at the bartender: “Another gin and tonic, buddy,” he says as he settles back in his seat.

“No, I’ve got it,” I say, pushing the money forward on the counter.

“Actually, your bill has already been settled,” the bartender tells me.

I search the room for Dr. Shields again, trying to peer into the shadowy booths. But most of them are blocked by the occupants of the tables between us.

I swear I can feel the heat of her gaze, though.

I don’t know the time frame for Dr. Shields’s instructions, so I force myself to stand up, lifting my glass and my phone. The wine swirls around in the goblet and I realize my hand is trembling again.

“Sorry,” I say. “But I just realized I know that guy. I should go say hello.”

Maybe this is the best strategy to use with the guy in the blue shirt, too. I’ll pretend I recognize him. But from where?

David frowns. “Okay, but then come join me and my friends.”

“Sure,” I say.

The man is off his phone now. He’s alone at a table for two against a wall. His empty plate has been pushed to the center of the table, his napkin crumpled beside it.

He looks up as I approach.

“Hi!” My voice is too bright.

He nods at me. “Hello,” he says, but it comes out more like a question.

“Um, it’s me, Jessica! What are you doing here?”

I’ve seen a lot of bad acting, and I know my performance isn’t going to fool anyone.

He smiles, but his forehead wrinkles.

“Nice to see you . . . How do we know each other again?”

The couple at the next table is clearly eavesdropping. I’m terrible at this. I look down at the patterned rug with its floral design and notice a tiny threadbare patch. Then I make myself meet the man’s gaze again. Here’s the tricky part.

“Didn’t we meet at, ah, Tanya’s wedding a few months ago?” I say.

He shakes his head. “Nope, must have been some other good-looking guy.” But he says it in a self-deprecating way.

I give a dry little laugh.

I can’t just walk away, so I try again.

“Sorry,” I say softly. “The truth is I was at the bar and this guy was bothering me and I just needed to get away.” Maybe the desperation I’m feeling comes through in my eyes, because he stretches out his hand to shake mine.

“I’m Scott.” I can’t place his accent, but it sounds Southern. He gestures to the empty chair across from him. “Want to join me? I was about to get another drink.”

I slide onto the chair and a few seconds later my phone buzzes. I glance down at it on my lap: Well done. Keep going.

I’m supposed to get this polite businessman to flirt with me. So I lean forward and put my elbows on the table, aware that the sticky tape only covers so much.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” I say, looking directly into his eyes.

I can’t sustain the eye contact for long; this feels so artificial. Flirting is fun when it’s natural, and when I’ve chosen the guy, like with Noah the other night.

But this is like dancing without music. And even worse, there’s an audience.

I echo the question David just asked me: “So where are you from?”

As Scott and I continue to talk, I puzzle over why Dr. Shields needs me to have a conversation with him instead of with David. They seem almost interchangeable. It’s like those tests in the backs of magazines: Spot the difference in these two images. But I don’t see any significant differences: late thirties, clean shaven, dark suits.

I can’t relax, knowing Dr. Shields is watching me, but by the time I’ve finished most of my wine, the conversation is flowing surprisingly easily. Scott is a nice guy; he’s from Nashville and he owns a black lab that he clearly adores.

Scott lifts up his glass tumbler and takes the last sip of amber Scotch.

That’s when I realize the difference between the two men, the tiny detail in the pictures that doesn’t match up.

David’s ring finger was bare.