Younger (3 page)

Jan was already pouring herself a glass from the bottle in the bucket stand at the side of the table as Anna walked the last few steps across the Daily Grill’s dining room.

“Sit down, have some
vino bianco
. We’re celebrating tonight.”

“And what’s the occasion? Tell me quick, so I can drink.”

“Yeah, catch up, A,” Allie ordered. “We both got here early, so this is seconds for us.”

“Allie is George’s new agent,” Jan announced. “Sweet, huh?”

Anna raised her glass to her friends. Could any two people be less alike? Jan had been majoring in philosophy when the three of them ended up on the same dorm floor freshman year at Goucher College; she was then, as now, a pudgy, slightly pugnacious flower child with long, flyaway auburn hair. Just after graduation, she’d married George, a junior philosophy instructor far too self-important for his twenty-eight years, and turned into a full-time mother and later a grandmother. Now she worked part-time as a guidance counselor at a private school off Mulholland. Since George had started writing what his publishers promoted as “philosophical tales of those doomed to live forever” some years back, Jan didn’t need to worry about earning a real living.

Allie Moyes was a stark contrast, poured into black leather pants and a fitted white shirt, her
maquillage
as perfect as if she’d sprung full-blown from a Serge Lutens photo shoot, her short black hair sleeked with brilliantine à la Joel Grey in
Cabaret
. In college, she’d been a borderline outcast, a “lipstick lesbian” business major at a time when every gay woman was called a “bull dyke” and
all
women were expected to major in education or liberal arts while awaiting their Mrs. degree. She’d confessed to Anna that she couldn’t imagine why anyone would choose a women’s college other than to meet girls—and she met many. Now an important agent at an important show business agency, she was as tough in her dealings with studios as she was kind to her friends.

“You’re handling writers as well as actors now, Allie?” Anna asked, sipping her wine.

“I’m starting to. I think they’ll be offering me a partnership in the agency—in preparation for which, I’m now also handling our novelists who sell movie rights. Which includes George.”

“That’s great! And lucky George, too.”

Jan was reaching for one of the menus on the table. “Let’s order. Sorry, but I had meetings at school, skipped lunch, and now I’m famished. And then we want to hear all the latest about you.”

“Me? Same old, same old.” Anna ducked her head and studied the menu. “Let’s see. Calories or conscience? Chicken pot pie or chicken Caesar?”

She wouldn’t spoil the evening with her news. She worked hard at keeping her mind on the conversation—Jan repeating the laudatory advance buzz for the film adaptation of George’s
Die with Me Again
, Allie filling them in on the latest happenings of her girlfriend Shawna, the former Stevie Nicks in a local Fleetwood Mac tribute band who was now starting to see some success as an actress.

After the meal, the subject turned—as it so often did—to looks and the passage of time. “I need some of that Madame X,” Jan said mournfully. “I’m starting to look my age, and you know that’s a bad thing in these parts.”

“I’ll give you some products. But Madame X is makeup, hon,” Anna reminded her. “You never wear makeup.”

“Maybe it’s time to start. I want to be like Allie, looking sixteen.”

“I take it you’ve finally stopped telling people your age?” Allie snorted. “Remember, Anna, when I had to tell her she couldn’t be my friend if she was going to tell people how old she was
and
that we were at school together? Not all of us have rich husbands to fall back on if the powers that be decide to put us out to pasture.”

“I don’t have a lifetime guarantee.” Jan’s lips drooped. “George is at that age, you know? When men start thinking about the trade-in-for-a-younger-model option. You wouldn’t believe how many of his friends have armpieces instead of wives.”

“Oh, I’d believe it. Just don’t ever let him forget he’s older than you,” Allie said succinctly. “Why not see my doctor? Then let me take you shopping and to the salon and gym. In a month, we’ll have a whole new you.”

“Oh, I couldn’t have a face-lift!” Jan quickly added, “Not that anyone would guess you’d had one, Allie.”

“I had a
neck
-lift, Jan, and that’s all. And I’m not suggesting you go under the knife. Just some light laser for the sun damage and fine lines, implants to plump out your cheeks, some alpha hydroxy acid creams. A derm can handle that. Just come with me the next time I go. You, too, A?”

Anna jumped. “Me?” she all but shrieked. “You think I look old?”

“Mmmm.” Allie leaned in, undressing Anna’s face with her eyes. “Hardly old. You have such good bone structure. Still . . . maybe a zap of Botox for the crease between your eyes, laser for those lip lines, and a touch of filler to get rid of the marionette lines.”

Anna forced a laugh.
Jesus,
she thought,
just what I need
. “You’re making me sound like Grandma Moses! I don’t have marionette lines!”

Allie ran her right index finger lightly from the left corner of Anna’s mouth toward her chin. “They’re not bad, but they do scream ‘Fifty-plus!
’
”

“Gawd, we should have had
two
bottles of wine,” Jan said tiredly. “I think I’m depressed now.”

“Nothing to be depressed about. Just a fact of life,” Allie told her calmly. “Old isn’t the new Young, guys. Old is the same old Old. You think they’d be offering me a partnership if the big cheeses at the agency knew my real age? No way, Jay! I need to stay forever nubile.”

The waiter raised his eyebrows at Anna and Jan’s frantic waving for the check. “Enough. I have work to prepare for school,” Jan blurted even as Anna mumbled something about going over some creative briefs before bed.

The drive home was short. Even so, the thoughts kept repeating themselves:
Marionette lines? Botox? Me?

Those words were still in her head when she woke the next morning. Before she’d even made coffee, she was squinting at her sleep-blurred face in the bathroom mirror. She cursed each tiny crevice creeping upward from her top lip. She plucked at her cheeks, wondering when they’d gone so slack. The lines from her nose down to either side of her mouth weren’t so bad—a little highlighter could hide them. Still . . .

After coffee and a bowl of muesli, she dialed Allie’s private work number. “Hey, great seeing you last night.”

“Yeah, we should work less and do it more often. So what’s up, in fifty words or less?”

“I was thinking about what you said last night, about not succeeding because of being too old.”

“C’mon, Anna, you don’t have to worry. But, yeah, sure I meant it.”

“I was thinking, if I decided I wanted to go back to corporate—”

“Why would you want to do that, dopey? You’ve got what’s going to be one of the hottest cosmetics accounts in America, if not the world.”

“I’ve been thinking about in-house benefits,” Anna fibbed. “Some days, it just seems like too much hustle for too little reward.”

“Then you’d better write a novel I can sell to the movies, because no corporation’s going to look at you twice. And even the first time, they won’t really be looking
at
you, they’ll be looking
through
you. Maybe if you tried a headhunter in New York, something might—emphasis on
might
—happen.”

“Oh, come on.” Anna set down her cup with a vehemence that surprised her. “It can’t be impossible!”

“Look, even most men who snag great corporate jobs come from corporate—or they get a job in-house with a client. So your only hope would be Coscom. Seriously, Anna, it’s different for women. And not just in La-La Land.”

“So you’re resigned to Botox and Restylane and laser and eventually a full face-lift and hiding your birth certificate as though it were the Enigma code?”

Allie laughed. “Do I seem like the kind of person who’s ever resigned to things? Eventually, Shawna and I will buy a house in the South of France or someplace, and I’ll grow old gracefully. Right now, I do what I have to do to nail down that future. And what I have to do right now is a meeting, even though I’d rather talk to you. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Thanks for the input.”

“The best thing for you is the status quo. You’ve got a strong ad campaign, and your client’s a winner. Don’t risk losing it all on a whim. Got it?”

“Yeah, got it. Thanks.”

It was Friday; she had cut her assistant down to just three days a week and was relieved one of them wasn’t today. After refilling her coffee cup in the kitchen, she took the
Los Angeles Times
from the front doorstep and got back into bed. Some days, it didn’t pay to get up. Certainly not when she’d just been told that her sole job opportunity was with the company that had precipitously decided they’d be absolutely fine without Anna Wallingham.

Chapter 2

Sunday, September 11, 2011

When she woke up, Anna thought she was back in her sweet cottage in Studio City. Then she opened her eyes to the plaster ceiling of a hostel room in Amsterdam, proof this nightmare was really happening. And it was September 11, never a good day.

She didn’t go downstairs until half past eight, when the dining room would be busiest. She ate a big Dutch breakfast from the buffet, then, before anyone could remember they’d never seen her passport, she hurried back upstairs for her things. She left the key on the bedside table and slipped out of the hostel.

On the Damrak, the main street running south from Central
Station, she found an Internet café already abuzz with impoverished-
looking backpackers. With trepidation, she scanned the major UK newspaper sites. Nothing. Googling “Pierre Barton,” she found a small item, no byline, that read “Investigation into Death of Pharma CEO?” It stated only that Barton had collapsed “at a friend’s” and been pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital yesterday morning, presumably of a heart attack. Almost as an afterthought, it added that there would be a coroner’s inquiry.

She read it over twice. DOA. The insinuation that this might be more than a simple myocardial infarction was there, if subtly—the question mark on the headline, for starters. Was it usual to have a coroner’s inquiry in the UK, or did the police suspect Pierre might have been murdered? His breathlessness, red face, sweating—she’d hoped to read he had indisputably died of what it had seemed to be: a heart attack. What about the person who’d almost knocked him down as he approached her building? She vaguely recalled the story of someone poisoned years ago by a blade hidden in the assassin’s umbrella. If Barton had been murdered, would the police suspect she was the killer? Would
they
be after her, too?

She signed onto her personal email, quickly scanning her in-box. She sent a group note to everyone back in the States, saying only that she was hitting the road again “in search of warm weather in Cape Town.” Pretty lame, but anything that might keep someone who was auditing her emails from finding her was worth doing.

Then, unable to avoid it, she went to her Barton Pharmaceuticals mailbox, her Tanya Avery account, where she found three emails dated yesterday afternoon that needed reading.

The first was to the entire staff, sent to both their work and home emails by Pierre’s personal assistant, Eleanor, simply and solemnly announcing Barton’s death that morning. The office would be closed Monday, with funeral details to be posted later.

The second, from Pierre’s wife, Marina, was abrupt. “Call or text ASAP!”

The third was from Becca, a coworker at BarPharm.

Eleanor called to tell me Mr. Barton collapsed at your apartment this morning. Wherever you are, Tanya, I hope you’re all right. I thought you should know that a stranger came by the house when my mum was cooking supper, a posh blond type who didn’t even introduce himself—just said Mrs. Barton had sent him. He seemed very keen to find you, but he didn’t seem like a policeman. Please take care.

Anna typed in Pierre Barton’s email address. On the subject line, she filled in “Final Diary Entry.” And then she wrote:

This is my last diary entry.

After the ambulance left yesterday, I sent a message telling Marina the hospital name. I knew there was no reason for me to go there.

Whoever reads this—and I know someone will—let this serve as my letter of resignation. I’m not sure what you’re up to, but I refuse to be a part of it anymore.

I’ve left a record of everything that’s transpired since April in a safe place. You would be very unwise to come looking for me.

I’m sure you’ll try to find me anyway, one of you, whoever you are.

By then, I plan on having figured things out. And it will be too late for you.

Until then, I remain,

Tanya. Lisa. Anna.

There
,
that should give someone food for thought
. She opened a new email account for herself, as [email protected], her own little sick joke (“The Last Account”). On Craigslist Berlin, she found three “roommate wanted” ads that might do and sent emails from “Lisa” on that account, asking to view the available rooms. “If you can get back to me sometime tonight, I’d like to see your flat tomorrow.”

Walking to the station, she was pretty sure that, for the moment, no one knew where she was, which made her feel not
good
, but better at least than she had since she’d come back into her living room with a glass of water in her hand the day before. Could that have been just yesterday?

The Berlin express didn’t leave from Central Station, which suited Anna’s plan. She bought a ticket from Amsterdam Schiphol Airport Station to Berlin Hauptbahnhof, as well as one for the airport shuttle train. When she reached Schiphol, she found a store that sold prepaid SIM cards and bought one for a standard cell phone. Soon she’d have enough SIM cards for a poker hand.

Next, she picked up a couple of English-language thrillers and a sudoku book, the kind of stuff a tourist might purchase for a trip. She’d already tucked her Berlin
Time Out
guidebook into her shoulder bag.

Twenty-five minutes before departure, she went to the ladies’ room near the security lanes leading to the long-haul-flight departure lounges. She turned on her BarPharm BlackBerry, switched it to silent, then climbed onto one of the toilets to wedge it high above and behind the tank where it couldn’t be seen. If anyone was tracking it, they’d end up here. With luck, they’d think she’d flown to Cape Town or back to the States. She inserted the new SIM card into her cheap cell phone and sent a single text message, then turned off the phone.

On the way down to the tracks, she bought a sandwich and a bottle of water, reaching her platform with the train already there. The car was half full, not bad for blending in. Toward the door into the car ahead, she spotted a girl with a mass of blond dreadlocked hair sitting alone next to the window in a grouping of four seats with a table in the middle. She didn’t mind riding backward, so she sat down across the table, but on the aisle so they’d both have legroom. Now it wouldn’t be so obvious that she was on her own.

She settled down, surreptitiously looked around, and saw no one suspicious. With a perfunctory smile at the young woman across from her, she slipped off her coat and pulled her scarf up over her chin and her hat down to her eyes. Closing them, she feigned sleep.

The weeks between that fateful lunch at The Ivy and the Madame X launch had flown by so quickly Anna could almost feel the air rushing past, bringing her closer to no work and too little money. She was busy with the details of the launch party, which she’d booked months ago at Block, the hottest new New York club. Otherwise, life was uneventful; the few things that stood out were notable solely for their awkwardness.

The first was Clive Madden’s discomfort when she bumped into him in the lobby at Coscom after Easter. She was arriving to see Richard and he was on his way out. As they came face-to-face, the chubby little Englishman turned bright red and smiled hesitantly.

He’s afraid I might make a scene,
Anna thought, putting on a fake grin and forcing him to speak first.

“Ah, well, hello there!” he finally blustered. “Here to see Richard?”

Her smile tightened. “Am I still allowed in the building? Hard to finish the launch otherwise, you know.”

His color deepened. “Of course you’re allowed. You’re welcome here any time. And congratulations on the Madame X collaterals. Even Mr. Barton said they were spectacular.”

Now it was her turn to be speechless. “No good deed goes unpunished, right?” she finally blurted.

At five foot eight plus heels, Anna towered over him. Looking far from ruthless, he peeked up at her. “Sorry, but it wasn’t—it wasn’t . . . an easy decision. Naturally, I’ll give you the highest recommendation and send any work I can your way. And I deeply appreciate your agreeing to work through the launch.”

He held out his hand. Of course, she shook it, a reputation as a poor loser being one of the many things she could now ill afford. “Thank you, Clive.” They stood in silence before smiling with jointly false brightness and nodding good-bye.

As she walked down the wide hallway toward Richard’s office, Anna couldn’t help but think Madden had seemed about to say, “It wasn’t my decision.”

When she related the encounter to Richard, all she got was a shrug. “C’mon, Richard, if not his decision, whose was it?”

“But he didn’t actually say that, did he? And whose decision could it be? You don’t think
I’d
suggest letting you go, do you?” He looked horrified.

“Of course I don’t. You have to admit it seems odd, ditching me in the midst of a major launch,” she mused. “I mean, slashing budgets, et cetera, et cetera. Which other consultants were let go?”

Richard hesitated before shaking his head. “None that I know of.”

“Any in-house staff shown the door?”

Another head shake.

“You know, almost twenty years ago, at my last job in New York, the head of the company didn’t like me because I wouldn’t suck up.”

“And?”

“And I was chosen to be part of a general layoff.”

Richard peered at her over his glasses, tortoiseshell today to match his brown silk tweed jacket. “And?”

“And the rest of the big ‘general layoff’ was a guy in accounting with late-stage AIDS.” Anna shook her head. “I don’t doubt Clive made the decision. But something about the way he spoke gave me a weird feeling.”

“Just relax. Don’t start getting obsessed with Clive.”

“You’re right.” She did a quick shoulder roll and took a deep breath. “Now, let’s decide on these gift bag items and get some of Coscom’s excess minions busy.”

Then there was her lunch with Gregg Hatch, executive director of the Western Cosmetics Council and unofficial go-to guy for anyone looking to switch jobs or accounts. He was also known for being selectively discreet—no single person knew exactly what he knew.

But as soon as Anna said, “I’m in the market for some new accounts,” she knew he wasn’t going to help.

“Well, good luck to you.” His smile was a little too cheerful, his voice a bit too loud. “These are, of course, hard times,” he said solemnly, like an anchorman introducing a poor economic forecast.

Liar,
Anna thought. “I know there are cutbacks everywhere, but with a product launch like Madame X under my belt—”

“Yes, I hear you’ve done a fantastic job.”

“And the rest of the sentence?”

He looked at her blankly. “I’m not following, I’m afraid.”

“The ‘but’ and the part that comes after it.”

“Well, just that . . . just that these are hard times.” He waved a hand vaguely, as if hard times were plotting somewhere off to his left.

“So, tell me, do you think these are going to be particularly ‘hard times’ for me?”