CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Friday, December 7
I was so worried I’d messed up the last time I saw Dr. Shields that when she finally phoned me back, I snatched up the phone before the first ring ended.
She asked if I’d be free tonight, like nothing was wrong. And maybe it wasn’t. She didn’t even mention my message about not expecting to be paid for bringing her the sculpture and forgetting to return her wrap.
The call lasted only a few minutes. Dr. Shields gave me a few instructions: Wear your hair down, polished makeup, and a black dress suitable for an evening out. Be ready by 8 P.M.
It’s twenty past seven right now. I stand in front of my closet, staring at the clothes crammed inside. I push aside the charcoal suede miniskirt that I usually pair with a blush-colored silky top, then I reach past my high-neck black dress that’s way too short.
Unlike Lizzie, who often texts me a series of selfies before we meet up, I’m as confident putting together outfits as I am blending a color palette for a client. I know what styles flatter me, but an evening out probably means something very different for Dr. Shields than it does for me.
I consider the most elegant dress I own, a black jersey with a low V-neck.
Too low? I wonder as I hold it up against my body and look in the mirror. My closet doesn’t contain a better option.
I wanted to ask Dr. Shields for more information—am I going?
What will I be doing? Is this one of those tests you mentioned?—but her voice sounded so focused and professional when she inquired if I’d be free that I didn’t have the nerve.
As I slip into the dress, I picture Dr. Shields in her refined skirts and sweaters, the lines so structured and classic that they could take her from her office to the ballet at Lincoln Center.
I tug up the neckline, yet I’m still showing too much cleavage. My hair is rogue, and the big hoop earrings I wore to work now look cheap.
I leave my hair down, as she instructed, and swap out the hoops for cubic zirconia studs. Then I find the double-sided fashion tape in my underwear drawer and seal up two inches from the bottom of the V.
Normally I go bare-legged or wear tights; tonight I pull out the pair of sheer black stockings that has been sitting in my dresser drawer for at least six months. They have a snag, but it’s on my upper thigh, so the dress hides it. I dab a bit of clear nail polish on the tear to keep it from running, then dig out the basic black pumps I’ve had forever.
I grab a zebra-print belt from my closet and fasten it around my waist. I can always slip it in my purse if it seems like a miscalculation when I show up wherever it is that I’m going.
I think of the question I always ask my clients: What kind of look are you going for? It’s difficult to answer when I have no idea who my audience will be. I follow Dr. Shields’s directive and add a neutral eyeshadow and tone down my liner.
It’s eight o’clock sharp, and still my phone is silent.
I check the signal, then walk around my apartment, mindlessly refolding sweaters and putting shoes back in my closet. At 8:17 I consider texting Dr. Shields, then decide against it. I don’t want to seem like a bother.
Finally, at 8:35, after I’ve reapplied my lip gloss twice, plus ordered some glittery paint and thick paper online for one of Becky’s Christmas presents, my phone chimes with a new text from Dr. Shields.
I look away from the T.J. Maxx website, where I’ve been checking out shirts for my mom:
An Uber will be outside your apartment in four minutes.
I take a final swig of the Sam Adams I’ve been sipping, then pop an Altoid into my mouth.
When I exit the building, I pull the door closed tightly until I hear the lock engage. A black Hyundai is idling by the curb. I locate the U sticker on the rear window before opening the back door.
“Hi, I’m Jess,” I say as I slide into the backseat.
The driver simply nods and pulls away, heading west.
I pull my seat belt across my body and click it into place.
“Where exactly are we going?” I ask, trying to affect a casual tone.
All I can see are his brown eyes and heavy brows in the rearview mirror. “You don’t know?”
He doesn’t say it like a question, though. It’s almost a statement.
As I watch the city begin to whirl by through the tinted back window, I suddenly realize how truly isolated I am. And how powerless.
I backpedal: “Oh, my friend arranged this ride for me,” I say. “I’m meeting her. . . .”
My voice trails off. I slide my hand beneath the seat belt strap that feels too tight against my chest. There’s no give in it.
The driver doesn’t reply.
My heartbeat quickens. Why is he acting so strangely?
He makes a right turn and we begin to head uptown.
“Are we stopping at Sixty-second Street?” I ask. Perhaps Dr. Shields wants to meet me at her office. But then why all the specifics about how to dress?
The driver’s gaze remains fixed straight ahead.
The realization slams into me: I’m trapped alone with a strange man. He could be taking me anywhere.
I’ve hailed countless cabs and ordered numerous Vias and Ubers. I’ve never felt unsafe before.
My eyes dart again to the windows in the back row of his car, my row. Nobody can see in.
I instinctively check the locks. I can’t tell if they are engaged. There isn’t a lot of traffic, so we’re moving relatively quickly. We’re bound to hit a traffic light. Should I try to open the door and jump out?
I slowly reach for the button on my seat belt and press it, wincing when my thumb gets pinched between the metal. I ease it off my shoulder carefully, so it doesn’t snap back into the holder.
How do I even know he’s an Uber driver? It’s probably not all that hard to get one of those U stickers. Or he could have borrowed the car.
I look at him more carefully. He’s a large man with a thick neck and beefy arms; his hands gripping the steering wheel are about twice the size of mine.
I’m fumbling for the button to roll down the window when the driver says, “Yeah, okay.”
I seek out his eyes in the rearview mirror, but they are fixed on the road.
Then I hear the slightly tinny, distinct sound of another male voice.
The tightness in my chest releases as I realize the driver didn’t respond to my questions because he’s on a phone call. He’s not being deliberately evasive, he simply didn’t hear me.
I take a deep breath and sink back into the seat.
I’m being silly, I tell myself. We’re traversing up Third Avenue, surrounded by cars and pedestrians.
Still, it takes a full minute for me to feel steadier.
I lean forward and repeat my query a third time, my voice louder.
He glances back over his shoulder, then says something that sounds like “Madison and Seventy-sixth.”
Between the radio and the noise of the engine, though, I’m not sure, and the driver has resumed his phone conversation.
I pull out my phone and google the location. A bunch of businesses show up—the Sussex hotel, Vince and Rebecca Taylor clothing boutiques, a few residential apartments, and an Asian fusion restaurant.
Okay, I think. All innocuous places. Which one is my destination?
The restaurant seems the most likely.
I reassure myself that Dr. Shields is probably seated there already, waiting for me. Perhaps she wants to give me more instructions about the real-life test.
Still, I can’t help but wonder why she needs to see me outside the office for that. Maybe there’s another reason.
For a brief moment, I imagine we’re two friends, or maybe a younger sister going to meet her older, more sophisticated one, to share a seaweed salad and some sashimi. Over a carafe of warm sake, we’d share confidences, too. This time, though, I would ask her all the questions that have been bubbling up in my mind.
In the side mirror, I see the bright headlights of an approaching car. At almost the same instant, my driver begins to swerve into that lane.
A horn blares and the Hyundai jerks back, brakes squealing. I’m flung against the door, then forward. My hands shoot out and I brace myself against the back of the passenger seat.
“Asshole!” my driver yells, even though the near-collision was his fault. He was so busy on his phone call, he didn’t check his blind spot.
For the rest of the ride, I keep watch out my side window. I’m so busy looking out for pedestrians and other vehicles that it takes me a few seconds to notice that the Uber has pulled up behind a black Town Car. We’re directly in front of the Sussex hotel.
“Here?” I ask the driver, pointing to the entrance.
He nods.
I step out onto the sidewalk and gaze up and down the block, unsure of what to do next. Am I supposed to wait inside the lobby?
I turn back to look at the Uber, but it is already gone.
A group of people pass by and one of the men bumps against my arm. I’m so startled I almost drop my phone.
“Sorry!” the man calls.
I look around for Dr. Shields, but the only faces on the street are unfamiliar.
I am on one of the safest blocks in all of Manhattan, so why do I feel so uneasy?
A few seconds later, another text arrives: Go directly to the bar on the lobby level. You’ll see a group of men at a large circular table about halfway back. Choose a seat at the bar close to them.
Clearly, I’ve guessed wrong. I have no idea what’s in store for me this evening, but it’s not going to be an intimate dinner with Dr. Shields.
I walk the nine steps to the entrance of the hotel and a bellman pulls open the door.
“Good evening, miss,” he says.
“Hi,” I say. My voice sounds timid, so I clear my throat. “Which way is the bar?”
“Past reception and all the way to the back,” he says.
I feel his eyes linger on me as I proceed through the entrance. I realize my dress rode up a bit when I got out of the Uber and I tug down the hem.
The lobby is mostly empty except for an older couple sitting on the leather couch by the fireplace. Behind the reception desk, a woman wearing glasses smiles at me and says, “Good evening.”
My heels sound too loud tapping against the ornate wood floor. I’m acutely conscious of my stride, and not just because I’m unaccustomed to wearing pumps.
I finally make it to the bar and pull open the heavy wooden door. It’s a good-size space, filled with a few dozen people. I squint as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. I look around, wondering if Dr. Shields is waiting to greet me. I don’t see her, but I do spot a bunch of guys at a large table about halfway back.
Choose a seat at the bar close to them.
Are they working with Dr. Shields, too?
I check out the group as I draw closer. They appear to be in their late thirties. At first glance, they’re almost indistinguishable with their short haircuts and dark suits and crisp, collared shirts. They’ve got an air about them I’ve seen before: They’re a younger version of the dads who pay for the fancy bar mitzvahs and sweet-sixteen parties, the ones that cost as much as a nice wedding.
There are only a few empty high-back stools at the bar. I take one that’s about six feet away from the men.
When I slide onto it, I feel the warmth of the wood against my thighs, as if someone has just vacated it. I loop the handle of my purse on the hook beneath the counter, then shrug off my coat and put it on the back of my seat.
“Be with you in just a minute,” the bartender says as he muddles herbs for a craft cocktail.
Am I supposed to order a drink? Or is something else going to happen?
Even though I’m in a public place, anxiety swirls in my gut. I remind myself of what Dr. Shields said during my first visit to her office: You will be in complete control and can back out at any time.
I twist slightly in my seat, so I can glance around the room, searching for clues. But all I see are the monied customers drinking and talking, a stunning blonde leaning in across the table to point to an item on the bar menu to her date, a well-built guy with a slightly receding hairline in a blue shirt, typing away on his phone, and two smiling, middle-aged couples raising their glasses in a toast.
My phone vibrates in my hand, startling me.
Don’t be nervous. You look perfect. Order a drink.
Where is she?
She has to be in one of the back booths, but my line of vision is obscured by the dim lighting and the other occupants of the bar.
I’ve been fiddling with the rings on my index finger. I put my hands in my lap. Then I look at the table full of guys again, wondering why Dr. Shields wanted to position me near them. My eyes run over each of the five men in turn. One meets my gaze. He leans over and whispers something to his friend, who laughs and turns to check me out. I twist back around, feeling my cheeks grow warm.
The bartender tilts toward me over the counter. “What can I get you?”
Normally I’d have a beer or a shot, but not in a place like this. “Red wine, please.”
He’s still waiting for something. I realize he’s expecting me to be more specific.
I cast back in my memory, then blurt, “Volnay,” hoping I pronounced it the same way the waiter did in the French restaurant a few nights ago.
“I’m afraid we don’t have that,” he says. “Would you care for a Gevry?”
“That’ll be fine,” I say. “Thank you.”
When the bartender delivers my glass, I grip it extra hard to disguise the fact that my hand is shaking.
Usually the warmth of alcohol relaxes me, but I still feel on edge as I scan the room again. I sense the presence of the man next to me before I see him out of the corner of my eye.
“Looks like you’re waiting for someone,” he says. It’s the guy from the table, the one who was whispering to his friend. “Mind if I keep you company until they show up?”
I quickly glance at my phone’s screen, but it’s blank.
“Um, sure,” I say.
He sets his drink down on the counter and takes the stool to my left. “I’m David.”
“Jessica.” My full name must have slipped out because I’m in Dr. Shields’s world now.
He rests an arm on the bar.
“So, Jessica, where are you from?”
I tell him the truth, not only because I don’t know what else to say, but because of Dr. Shields’s rules about honesty.
It hardly matters, though, because he just replies, “That’s cool,” and then launches into a story about how he moved here from Boston for a big job four years ago. I’m in the midst of feigning interest when my phone vibrates.
“Excuse me.” I grab it and see the text from Dr. Shields.
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.
Scott is wearing a thick platinum wedding band.