An Anonymous Girl(44)

Dr. Shields pours the coffee from a waiting carafe into two china cups with matching saucers. The curve of the handle is so delicate I’m a little worried I might break it.

“I thought we could work in the dining room,” Dr. Shields says.

She places the coffee and the platter on a tray, along with two small china plates in the same pattern as the cups. I follow her into the adjoining room, passing by a small table that holds a single silver-framed photograph. It’s of Dr. Shields with a man. His arm is around her shoulders and she is gazing at him.

Dr. Shields looks back at me.

“Your husband?” I ask, gesturing to the picture.

She smiles as she arranges the teacups in front of two adjacent chairs. I take a closer look at the man, because this is the first thing about Dr. Shield’s house that doesn’t fit.

He’s maybe ten years older than she, with slightly bushy dark hair and a beard. They appear to be almost the same height, about five foot seven.

They don’t seem like a match. But they both look very happy in the photo, and she always lights up when she mentions him.

I move away from the picture and Dr. Shields motions to a chair at the head of the glossy oak table, beneath a crystal chandelier. The table is bare save for a yellow legal pad and, beside it, a pen and a black phone. It isn’t the silver iPhone I’ve noticed on Dr. Shields’s desk before.

“You said I’d just be making some calls today?” I ask. I don’t know how this fits into a morality test. Is she going to ask me to set someone up again?

Dr. Shields places the tray on the table, and I can’t help noticing that every single blueberry and raspberry is perfect, like the same designer who chose the graceful pieces of furniture for this room also selected the fruit.

“I know Friday evening was unsettling for you,” she says. “Today will be more straightforward. Plus I’ll be right here in the room with you.”

“Okay,” I say, sitting down.

I center the legal pad in front of me and that’s when I see the first page isn’t blank. Listed in what I now recognize as Dr. Shields’s handwriting are the names of five women and, beside the names, phone numbers. All have New York City area codes: 212, 646, or 917.

“I need some data concerning how money and morality intersect,” Dr. Shields says. She places my cup and saucer in front of me, then reaches for her own. I notice she takes her coffee black. “It occurred to me that I can use your profession to help with this fieldwork.”

“My profession?” I echo. I pick up the pen and press the bottom with my thumb. It makes a loud clicking noise. I put it back down and take a sip of coffee.

“When given a hypothetical scenario, say, winning the lottery, most subjects claim they would donate a portion of the money to charity,” Dr. Shields says. “But in reality studies show winners are often less giving than their own predictions would indicate. I would like to delve into a variation of this.”

Dr. Shields freshens my coffee from the carafe she has brought to the table, then takes the seat next to me.

“I want the people who answer your call to believe someone has gifted them a free makeup session with BeautyBuzz,” Dr. Shields says.

Something about her energy seems especially intense today, even though she is practically motionless. But her expression is serene; her ice-blue eyes are clear. So maybe I’m just projecting my own feelings. Because while I know this all makes perfect sense to her, I’m having trouble understanding why it would be important to her research.

“So I just call and say they’ve been given a free makeup session?”

“Yes. And it’s the truth,” Dr. Shields says. “I will pay you for the sessions—”

“Wait,” I interrupt. “I’ll really be doing these women’s makeup?”

“Well, yes, Jessica. Like you do every day. That shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

She makes everything sound so logical; she sweeps away my question like it’s a tiny crumb on the table.

But the reprieve I found when I was with Noah is already vanishing. Every time I’m with Dr. Shields I feel like I understand what she’s doing less and less.

She continues, “What I’m curious about is whether the recipients will tip you more generously since they received the service for free.”

I nod, even though I still don’t get it.

“Why these numbers, though?” I ask. “Who am I calling?”

Dr. Shields takes an unhurried sip of coffee. “They were all original subjects in an earlier morality survey I conducted. They signed a waiver agreeing to a broad range of possible follow-up trials.”

So they know something might be coming, but they don’t know what it is. I can relate.

Intellectually, I can’t see how this could hurt anyone. Who wouldn’t want a free makeup session? Still, my stomach tightens.

Dr. Shields slides a piece of paper over to me. On it appears to be a typewritten script. I stare down at it.

If BeautyBuzz finds out I’m doing this, I could be in trouble. I signed a noncompete clause when they hired me. And even though, technically, I’m not freelancing off their name, I doubt they’d see it that way.

I kind of hope none of these five women accept the free gift.

I wonder if there’s another way I could help with this experiment without using the name of my company.