An Anonymous Girl(50)

“I’m okay,” you say. Your tone is tempered now.

“Describe what happened in chronological order after you entered the exhibit. Don’t leave out any detail, no matter how inconsequential it may seem,” you are told.

You speak of the French couple, the docent and her tourists, and your impression of Alexander’s decision to photograph in black-and-white to emphasize the form of the vehicles.

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.