An Anonymous Girl(51)

I press Speaker.

When Reyna opens the door to her apartment, my first thought is that she is pretty much what I expected when I envisioned the other women in Dr. Shields’s study: early thirties, with shiny dark hair in a blunt cut at her collarbone. Her apartment is furnished with an artistic flair—a giant, swirling stack of books serves as an end table, the walls are a rich maroon, and a funky menorah that looks like an antique rests on the windowsill.

For the next forty-five minutes, I try to weave all the questions Dr. Shields needs me to ask. I learn Reyna is thirty-four, originally from Austin, and that she’s a jewelry designer. She points to a few of the pieces she is wearing as I select a dove-gray eyeshadow, including the eternity ring she designed for her wedding to her partner.

“Eleanor and I have matching ones,” she says. She’d already told me that they’re attending a friend’s thirty-fifth birthday party tonight.

Reyna is so easy to talk to I almost forget this isn’t one of my usual jobs.

We chat a little more, then she goes to check her reflection in a mirror.

When she comes back, she hands me two twenties. “I can’t believe I won this,” she says. “Which company do you work for again?”

I hesitate. “One of the big ones, but I’ve been thinking about going freelance.”

“I’ll definitely call you again,” Reyna says. “I still have your number.”

But that number is to the phone Dr. Shields had me use. I just smile and pack up quickly. When I’m back on the sidewalk, I immediately take Dr. Shields off speakerphone and put my cell phone to my ear.

“She gave me forty dollars,” I say. “Most clients only tip ten.”

“Wonderful,” Dr. Shields says. “How long until you’re at the next appointment?”

I check the address. It’s just a quick cab ride up the West Side Highway.

“It’s in Hell’s Kitchen,” I say. I’m shivering; the temperature has plummeted in the past hour. “So I should be there by around seven-thirty.”

“Perfect,” she says. “Call me when you arrive.”


The second woman is unlike any other client I’ve worked on. It’s hard to imagine how she would have gotten into Dr. Shields’s study.

Tiffani has bleached blond hair and is rail thin, but not like the fancy Upper East Side moms.

She starts chattering the minute I wheel my case into her tiny entryway. It’s a studio with a minuscule kitchen and a couch pulled out into a bed. Bottles of liquor line the kitchen cabinet and the sink is full of dirty dishes. The television is blaring. I glance over and see Jimmy Stewart on the screen in It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s the only sign of the holidays in this dark, dreary apartment.

“I’ve never won anything!” Tiffani says. Her voice is high and almost shrill. “Not even a stuffed animal at the fair!”

I’m about to ask about her plans for the night when another voice comes from the rumpled covers on the sofa bed: “I fucking love this movie!”

I start, then look over to see a guy lounging against the cushions.

Tiffani follows my gaze: “My boyfriend,” she says, but she doesn’t introduce me. The guy doesn’t even look over, and the blue light from the screen that washes over his face blurs his features.

“Going anywhere special tonight?” I ask.

“I’m not sure, maybe a bar,” Tiffani says.

I open my case on the floor; there’s nowhere to spread out. Already I know I don’t want to spend any longer here than I need to.

“Can we turn on a light?” I ask Tiffani.

She reaches for a switch and her boyfriend reacts instantly, throwing a hand over his eyes. I catch a glimpse of sharp limbs and a tattoo sleeve. “Can’t you guys do that in the bathroom?”

“There’s no space,” Tiffani says.

He exhales. “Fine.”

I set my phone on the top shelf of my case, making sure the screen is facedown. I wonder how much of this Dr. Shields can hear.

Tiffani drags over a brown packing box and sits on it. I notice a couple others stacked against the wall.

As I examine her skin I realize Tiffani is older than she first appeared: Her complexion is sallow, and her teeth have a grayish tint.

“We just moved here,” she says. Her sentences tip up like questions at the end. “From Detroit.”

I begin to blend an ivory foundation on my hand. She’s so pale I need to use my lightest shade.

“What brought you to New York?” I ask. I know her marital status, now I just need to get her occupation and age.

Tiffani glances at her boyfriend. He still seems immersed in the movie. “Just some work stuff for Ricky,” she says.

But clearly he’s been listening to us because he calls out: “You girls sure are chatty.”

“Sorry,” Tiffani says. Then, more quietly, she continues: “Your job seems really fun. How did you get it?”

I lean over and begin to dab foundation onto her skin. That’s when I see the faint purple bruise on her temple. It was hidden by her hair when she answered the door.

My hand pauses.

“Ouch, what happened here?” I ask.

She stiffens. “I hit it on a cabinet door when I was unpacking.” For the first time, her tone is flat.