An Anonymous Girl(39)

“Something else is troubling you,” she says.

I hesitate and look into her cool blue eyes. I hadn’t planned on telling her this part. Finally, I blurt out: “Right before he left the table . . . he called me ‘Sugar.’”

Dr. Shields doesn’t reply, but I know she is listening to me in the way no one else ever has before.

My eyes fill with tears. I blink them back before continuing.

“There was this guy . . .” I hesitate, inhale deeply, and then continue. “I met him a few years ago and at first I thought he was amazing. You may have heard of him, he’s a well-known theater director now. Gene French.”

She nods almost imperceptibly.

“I was hired to do makeup for one of his shows. It was a huge deal for me. He was always really nice, even though I was a nobody. When we got the Playbill printed, he showed me my name in the credits and said I should celebrate it, that life had so many hardships and we should honor the triumphs.”

Dr. Shields is utterly still.

“He did . . . something to me,” I say.

The images I can’t ever seem to erase seep into my mind again: Me slowly lifting up my shirt, up over my bra, while Gene stands a few feet away, staring. Me saying, I really should go now. Gene positioning himself between me and the door to his office, which is closed. His hand moving toward his belt buckle. His answer: Not yet, Sugar.

“He didn’t touch me, but . . .” I swallow hard and continue. “He told me a prop was missing from the show, an expensive necklace. He said I had to lift up my shirt to prove I wasn’t wearing it.” A shudder runs through my body as I recall standing there in that claustrophobic, darkened room, trying to look anywhere but at him and what he was doing to himself, until he finished and dismissed me.

“I should have told him no, but he was my boss. And he said it so matter-of-factly, like it was no big deal.” I look into Dr. Shields’s light blue eyes and I manage to shake off the image. “That guy Scott reminded me of him for a minute. Just the way he said ‘Sugar.’”

Dr. Shields doesn’t respond immediately. Then she says softly, “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

I feel her hand graze mine again, light as a butterfly.

“Is this why you aren’t interested in a serious boyfriend?” she asks. “It isn’t uncommon, when a woman endures an assault like you did, for her to withdraw, or to change her relationship patterns.”

Assault. I’d never thought of it like that. But she’s right.

I suddenly feel depleted, like I did after our first session. I reach up and massage my temples with my fingertips.

“You must be exhausted,” Dr. Shields says, like she can see inside me. “I have a car waiting. Why don’t you take it home? I’d prefer to walk anyway. Text or call if you want to talk over the weekend.”

She stands up and I do the same. I feel oddly disappointed. A few minutes ago, I was furious with her; now I don’t want her to leave me.

We head together toward the exit, and I see the black Town Car idling by the curb. The driver comes around to open the back door and Dr. Shields tells him to take me anywhere I want to go.

I sink onto the seat and tilt my head back against the soft leather as the driver walks back around to the front of the car. Then I hear a gentle tap on my window, so I roll it down.

Dr. Shields smiles at me. Her silhouette is backlit by the bright city lights. Her hair is a halo of fire, but her eyes are in the shadows. I can’t see their expression.

“I nearly forgot, Jessica,” she says, pressing a folded slip of paper into my hand. “Thank you.”

I look down at the check, feeling oddly reluctant to open it.

Maybe this is all just a business transaction to Dr. Shields. But what exactly am I being paid for now? My time, the flirtation, my confidences? Or something else I don’t know about?

All I know is that it feels unclean.

When the driver pulls away, I slowly unfold the check.

I stare at it for a long moment as the car’s wheels spin almost soundlessly against the asphalt.

It’s for $750.





CHAPTER


TWENTY-FOUR


Saturday, December 8

Saturday evening. Most couples call it date night.

Traditionally, it has been for us, too: dinners at Michelin-star restaurants, nights at the Philharmonic, a leisurely stroll through the Whitney Museum. However, after Thomas’s missent text, he moved out and these encounters were terminated. Gradually, after the counseling, apologies, and promises, they were reinstated, but with a new focus: An emphasis was placed on connection and rebuilding.

At first the atmosphere was infused with strain. If you were watching us from the outside, Jessica, you might assume a new relationship was unfolding, which, in a sense, it was. Physical contact was kept to a minimum. Thomas was solicitous, verging on overly so: He arrived with flowers, rushed to open doors, and filled his unwavering gaze with admiration.

His pursuit was more ardent than even during our initial courtship. At times it had a desperate, almost fear-laced quality. As if he were terrified of losing our relationship.

Over time, a softening reshaped the interactions. Conversations grew less stilted. Hands found each other across the table once the plates had been cleared.

Tonight, a mere twenty-four hours after the experiment at the hotel, progress has been reversed. It is clear that not all men are susceptible to the attention of a beautiful young woman. The man in the blue shirt resisted you, Jessica, yet Thomas was not immune when the opportunity was offered.