Younger (20 page)

He exhaled loudly, plainly flustered. “I’m sorry. I’ll ask him not to bother you again.”

“What else does he know about me? Does he have people following me all the time? Was that couple pretending to be Russian tourists or whatever actually just his British agents on my tail? Do they trail me to the movies, to Marks and Spencer to buy knickers, to The Ivy?”

“Please don’t get upset. What makes you so sure he actually followed you to the museum?”

“He made it quite clear he knew I was ready to leave rather than just arriving. And I’m not upset, so I’d appreciate your not telling Martin Kelm I’m upset, all right? In fact, I’d prefer if you don’t even mention to him that I said anything. And if, in the future, you don’t pass along any comments I might make that aren’t directly related to
YOU
NGER. Is that asking too much?”

“No. Not at all. I certainly don’t want Kelm invading your privacy.” His look of concern seemed genuine. In fact, for the normally unruffled Pierre Barton, he appeared disturbed.

“And what’s all this about being able to get out of my contract sooner than expected, with full pay?”

“What?” His surprise struck her as both genuine and dismayed, but he quickly recovered. “Well, yes, there’s a chance.” He cleared his throat and avoided her eyes. “We should know in a month or so.”

She nodded and stood up. She wasn’t going to push her luck by asking anything else. She remembered what Becca had said about Olga bugging Barton.

You’re just being paranoid,
she told herself. But she no longer believed anything she said.

She had to admit she’d be thrilled if this whole
YOU
NGER charade wrapped up ahead of schedule. She often had a hard time concentrating on her work and feared that after the US Madame X launch, the UK one would be anticlimactic. She didn’t miss her real age, but she did miss her real life. Except for David, and that was another one of those things she didn’t want to think about.

The incidents with Jan and Kelm left her deeply unsettled and anxious. By the time Friday rolled around, she wasn’t up for more than grabbing a takeout chicken baguette on the way home, then tugging off her jacket and plopping herself down at the living room coffee table to eat. Only when the sandwich was gone did she go to the kitchen and pour herself wine, wondering if this was how Olga Novrosky had spent her evenings, alone and self-pitying. She felt irrationally annoyed with David for being busy this weekend.

She took her glass of Vermentino and computer into the little office.
What to write in the stupid, useless diary tonight,
she wondered. Certainly not what was on her mind: that mounting evidence indicated she was being used, that she didn’t buy the official line about just another lugubrious Russian hurling herself under a speeding subway train. What would happen if she admitted that she was afraid of—in no particular order—her boss, her boss’s wife, her boss’s chauffeur, and MI6? Or that she was fast approaching the point where what had driven her to take this damned job—the threat of losing her house, her car, and her reputation—was starting to seem like a day at the beach compared to this bullshit?

Enough sulking,
she chided herself. Then she logged on to her personal email, and her heart sank.

The first name was Allie’s and the subject line said, “Sad News.” Praying that the news wasn’t about Shawna or Allie herself, she clicked.

I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Jan died last week in London, after the premiere of George’s movie. I would have told you sooner, but it’s been so upsetting for me dealing with George and the funeral that I couldn’t dredge up the energy. You know I told you Jan had been drinking a lot? It seems she got drunk at the after-party for the movie. George couldn’t leave the party, so he walked her outside to get a taxi to take her back to the hotel. But she stormed off on foot and he says he figured the walk might sober her up. When he got to The Savoy about an hour or so later, the police were in the lobby waiting for him.

It looks like a garden-variety hit-and-run. Her blood alcohol
was stratospheric, so she might have walked in front of a car—confused by people driving on the other side of the road in England. George says the police say it could have been an accident but that the driver was speeding, so panicked and kept going. No witnesses. Two kids on their way to a club tripped over what they thought was a wino until they saw all the blood.

Anyhow, terrible all around. I’m so sorry to have to be telling you this. Jan wasn’t a pleasure to be around anymore, but we were hoping she’d get better. Do try to remember the best, funny side of her, as I’m determined to. You two were my oldest friends, and I’m missing you more than I can say right now. Wish you were here. When are you coming home?

Love, The Other A.

Anna sat back in the chair, taking a deep breath as the room spun before her eyes. How terrible! Could it be connected to her? Could Jan have been drinking even more than usual because she’d been so sure it was Anna at The Ivy? Worse, much worse, could Jan have been run down because she’d recognized Anna?

She considered calling Nelson Dwyer to see what he knew, but she didn’t trust Mr. Tabloid any more than she did anyone else. What she needed to think about now was protecting herself, and she knew who might be able to give her some advice without her revealing what was going on. She texted him on her BarPharm phone. No reason to hide meeting Rob—if anything, he was convenient for hiding David’s presence in her life.
Are you free for lunch Wednesday, my treat?
she asked.
Fab curry place between our offices.

She didn’t know much of anything, but the news about Jan convinced her of one thing: she needed a solid plan, not just a bottle of hair dye, in case she had to get out of London quickly. She peered into her empty glass. Either that, or end up an alcoholic . . . or like Olga.

In the bedroom, she decided against the suitcases she’d brought from LA, now stacked on top of the armoire. If she had to flee and was being watched, a large bag was too obvious. From the hall, she fetched the backpack she normally used for the gym. Into it, she put jeans, her Vans, a T-shirt, and a sweater, as well as two changes of socks and underwear and a nightie. In the bathroom, she prepared a small waterproof bag with toiletries. She’d just have to add her
YOU
NGER products, makeup, and assorted electronics if and when the time came. For all she knew, someone might be coming in to check the apartment when she was at work. This bag could pass for something she’d put together to change clothes at the gym. She knew she’d have to keep the phones and laptop hidden until the last minute.

Finally, exhausted, she crawled into bed, hoping “the last minute” wasn’t coming closer, but fearing the clock was already ticking.

Chapter 17

The following Friday, looking at David’s ordinary if attractive face across the table at a homey restaurant in Soho, she wondered why any man would want to spend money on plastic surgery to look younger. The lines on his face added depth to what had been pretty standard good looks. Now his face reflected character and experience. And hers? What had hers reflected before
YOU
NGER?

His voice interrupted her musings. “Not to be a walking cliché, but a penny for ’em.”

She blushed in spite of herself. “Honest? I was thinking how handsome you are.”

It was his turn to redden. “In that case, you must consider Bob Hoskins a hunk of burnin’ love.”

She laughed, just a little, then stopped as she saw the look in his eyes.

“Your laugh is so like hers, like Anna’s. You’re sure you aren’t a ghost?” He sounded only half-kidding.

She almost told him then.
Almost
. Instead, after a pause, she said lightly, “Oh, God, I hate my laugh! And I refuse to believe another person could have it. Or that you’d remember her laugh after all these years.”

“You’re probably right. Meeting you has opened the floodgates of memory, I suppose. It’s been a rather emotional time for me.”

Without thinking, she reached over and took his hand. He looked at her hand on his, patted it, then slowly pulled away, his face serious. “I wish I weren’t so much older than you, Tanya, but I am. And, you know, there are three of us here: you, me, and Anna. I was stupid not to have resolved that relationship. I did what she did: walked away and never looked back. You know what I’ve decided? Once I finish work on this pilot I’ll be doing at the start of December, I might go to the States and look for her. Or hire a detective in New York. I want to know what happened.”

“Look for her? For
Anna
?”

His face was grim. “I want the truth. Maybe when I see her, I’ll feel the same happiness I felt that moment I bumped into you and thought it was her. Maybe I’ll realize it ended at the right time.” He shrugged. “At least I’ll find out why she did what she did, what she was hiding from me.”

For the first time since she’d reencountered David, she was annoyed. “Do you seriously have no idea? A woman was so unhappy she just disappeared, and you haven’t a clue? If she was hiding something, what about you? Were you so open with her?”

Caught off base, he looked defiant. “Well, I wasn’t, was I? I mean, no one’s open and honest all the time. I was juggling a lot of things, a lot of commitments.” He sighed. “I did have someone else here in London, which is why the only times we met outside New York were in Paris. You know that trip when I returned to New York and got the letter from Anna saying she didn’t want to see me again? The joke was on me because I had finally broken off with the woman here. What messes we humans make of our lives, eh?”

“Was that the one you ended up marrying? The one you broke up with?”

“No. That one ended up marrying a French journalist. I guess what I’m saying is maybe Anna and I can meet up and find the truth. Or at least compare lies.”

After a pause, he asked, “And you, Tanya? How’s life treating you?”

She shrugged. “It’s okay. My work here might be finished before I’d expected.”

“Then back to New York?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, would you promise me something? If I ever contact you and ask you to call me from a pay phone or to be at one at a certain time, will you do everything in your power to do that?”

“What? Why?”

She took out a card on which she’d written just an email address, [email protected], and the password “2Gud24Get” and handed it to him. “Keep this in a safe place. It’s important. In case of an emergency—only in case we absolutely can’t get in touch with each other—log into this account and look in the Drafts folder. And if you need to communicate with me, do the same thing: write an email from that account, not to me, to any fake name, and put it in that folder. Do
not
send it. Do
not
email me. We can both read the drafts without sending emails. And don’t use your own computer. Go to an Internet café, all right? I’m sure this is all for nothing, but it could happen. I could decide to leave London in a hurry, and if I do—”

“Whoa! Hang on a minute. Are you in trouble?”

“It’s nothing like that.”

“Nothing like that? You’re talking about calls to pay phones, not using my own computer, strange email accounts, and it’s ‘nothing like that’? What’s wrong, Tanya? Tell me?”

The look of concern on his face made her want to confess everything. Only the knowledge that he’d hate her if she did made her say evenly, “Really, it’s no big deal. It’s just that I think there might be something funny going on, like maybe some industrial espionage or whatever. Seriously, no biggie.” She paused. “So I might have to leave suddenly, and I want you to know I’d never leave again without saying good-bye.”

“Again?”

The blood rushed to her cheeks. “No, I didn’t say ‘again,
’”
she lied. “I said ‘London.’ I’d never leave London without saying good-bye. That’s all. I don’t mean to be a drama queen.”

“So you’re not serious about the pay phone?”

“No, I am serious.” She waved to the waitress to bring a check. “Listen, it’s complicated. It probably won’t happen. But if it does, I’ll explain it all, I promise.”

Outside, she told him she’d walk to Shaftesbury Avenue and grab a taxi.

“You’re sure you aren’t in trouble? Okay, we’ll talk soon then,” he said. “Thank you for dinner and for listening to me natter on about a bygone romance.”

“I like listening to you natter, David. Honest.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, but her lips lingered because it was just so damned hard to turn away, and then, before she could, he did what she’d been longing for all along—pulled her abruptly into his arms and kissed her. Deeply, passionately kissed her. She didn’t even try to stop him. She responded, melting against him, the contours of his body fitting familiarly into hers, his taste on her tongue, her lips. Then, just as abruptly, he pulled away.

“I must be mad.” He stared at her, then reached out and touched her cheek. “We’ll talk.” Then he turned and walked away.

She walked past Shaftesbury Avenue and on to Piccadilly, needing fresh air and a few minutes to sort out her thoughts. One more glass of wine and she might have begged David to come home with her. And then what? She couldn’t go to bed with him. How could she even see him again?

She wished she’d been able to tell David, if not the whole truth, at least that a friend of hers had been killed. How crazy would that have been? But she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Jan. She kept seeing Pierre at The Ivy, folding the note from George and slipping it into his pocket. Why hadn’t he crumpled it up and tossed it on the table? Had Jan died because of knowing Tanya was Anna? Was Barton involved?

Kelm or no Kelm, she had to end her contract. Not just to get away from Barton Pharmaceuticals and whatever was going on there, but to escape from the mess she was making with David as well. Neither situation, she was sure, could end well for her.

It had been a busy week that had led up to this serious scheming and her instructions to David. Monday morning, she’d stopped by Barton’s office on the way to her own desk. “He’s decided to take a few days off again,” Eleanor told her, sounding exasperated. “He said he might not be back until next week.”

“Anything wrong?”

“Who knows?” Eleanor said testily. “I didn’t bother inquiring why he called at the last minute to tell me to cancel all his appointments, then snapped at me when I asked when he’ll be back.” She got control of herself. “Ignore me. I’m just busy enough without having to deal with making excuses when I cancel meetings for an entire week.”

“I don’t want to put you to any more trouble, so do you mind if I check his Rolodex or whatever for a phone number?” she’d asked.

Eleanor gave her a you-must-be-kidding smile. “Has anyone used a Rolodex since Margaret Thatcher was in office? Mr. Barton keeps his numbers on his BlackBerry, Tanya, and he keeps that with him.”

“There’s no place else he might store numbers? You must keep a list of calls you place for him, no?”

Peering up over her glasses, Eleanor looked doubtful. “If you give me the name, I can see if I have a number. But he places most calls himself, not through me.”

Anna took a deep breath, knowing that, morally, she was about to break confidentiality—but legally, it was a gray area of her restrictive agreement. “The name’s Martin Kelm. K-e-l-m.”

She watched as Eleanor’s fingers moved over her keyboard. “Nothing. And the name isn’t familiar. A supplier?”

“No. Just a contact. I’ll check my office again. Otherwise, it can wait.”

She waited for fifteen minutes before ringing Eleanor. “I found that number, thanks. Silly me, I’d stuck the paper under the telephone.” She hoped that was enough to make Barton’s efficient assistant forget she had asked.

Wednesday, she’d met Rob for curry, and, toting out her would-be stalker for what she hoped was the last time, picked his brain about the relative security of landlines, mobiles, text messages, and emails. He asked a lot of questions, and at first she wondered if he was one of “them,” someone in Kelm’s pocket, though that seemed far-fetched. Only at the end of the meal did he provide the reason for his anxiety. “So, this Romeo with his eye on you, you don’t think he’s going to come after
me
, do you?” His relief when she said that if the guy was going to follow anyone, it would be Neil, the nonexistent man she was dating, convinced her that if some vast conspiracy existed, Rob wasn’t part of it.

Over lunch, he’d supplied the helpful information she would give David about using the Drafts folder in Hotmail to communicate without sending emails that might be intercepted. Before they’d parted, Rob made her promise to call him if anything frightened her.

At lunchtime Thursday, Anna had stealthily made her way to the Tube and headed for Vauxhall Cross. Looking up while entering the forbidding-looking SIS building, she was surprised by the airiness of an atrium going up through all the floors, flooding it with light. But once fully inside, the security desk, metal detectors, and guards erased any resemblance to a Marriott.

The middle-aged man behind the desk looked up without expression.

She’d decided stupidity was her best approach. “I’m trying to contact someone who works here. Is there a house phone so I can be put through?”

Her silly question did manage to make the man look more human, though he didn’t hide a snicker. “This isn’t The Ritz, miss,” he said. “We don’t ring through. If you give me the name, I’ll check on the department and number for you, but you’ll have to go call on your mobile or from a pay phone. The name?”

“Kelm. Martin Kelm.”

He worked a minute on his computer, muttered something, then pulled out a big directory and flipped through pages. “No such person here.”

“Might he be in a different building?”

“If you’re looking for the Intelligence Service, this is the one. What department would Mr. Kelm be in?”

She frowned, aiming for awkward, embarrassed, and lovesick. “I don’t know. He never said.”

“Well, if his name’s Martin Kelm, you won’t find him here.” At her stricken expression, he leaned forward and said softly, “It’s not all that unusual, you see, blokes telling the ladies they’re MI6. All very dashing and James Bond, I suppose. But if he worked here, his name would be on the lists.” He nodded. “Sorry I can’t help.”

“But—” His pitying yet cool stare said louder than words,
Don’t waste my time, girly
. “Thank you.” That was that.

Outside, she walked to Vauxhall station, then retraced her steps to the pub she’d been to with Barton. Taking a stool at the bar, she ordered a half of cider from the barmaid, a stout older woman with badly dyed copper hair. “Quiet today,” she noted as the woman set her glass down on the bar.

“Because we don’t do set lunch during the week, luv. So we don’t get the crowds in until later, just the punters who place bets at the bookie’s down the street. You from the States, then?” She set down the cider, and Anna spied a roadmap of broken capillaries under her veneer of powder.