Younger (7 page)

“And she was a friend of your mother’s?”

He barked another laugh. “Oh, not at all. She was older than Maman, plus Madame Castaing’s tastes were too flamboyant for Marie Héloise—lots of leopard-skin prints and such. The reason I mention her is that as Madeleine Castaing got older, into her seventies and eighties, she started hiding her age in a ludicrous way. She painted big eyelashes directly onto the skin around her eyes and wore a distinctive wig, an auburn bob that she padded inside with tissue paper in order to look taller. It had—get this—a
visible
chin strap, the purpose of which was to pull her sagging neck away from that once-beautiful face.” He reached down and pulled a photocopy from his case. “She wasn’t shy about the contraption, though she wouldn’t discuss it other than to say, ‘Oh, yes, my chin strap.’ But she never tried to hide it.”

The old woman whose picture Anna held was clownish yet Felliniesque, the traces of her former beauty still there. The strap holding her neck where she wanted it to be was dark and stood out starkly. “No surgery?”

He shook his head. “She was almost a hundred when she died in the midnineties.” He shrugged. “Even movie stars didn’t rush out for plastic surgery in the old days. It was dangerous, for one thing. They relied on clips and ties hidden in their hair to pull their skin taut. They wore lots of scarves. And it was all for the same reason, of course: they couldn’t face looking old, neither for their fans nor themselves.”

Anna handed the photo back as a waiter arrived with their food. She ate her fish slowly, pondering. While Pierre’s mother had none of the feline deformities of Jocelyn Wildenstein, the Manhattan socialite who’d become famous in America for spending $4 million trying to look like a cat, Marie Héloise’s face was grotesque as the gargoyles on the buttresses of Notre Dame. She looked up at Barton. “And your mother? Who couldn’t she afford to look old for?”

“Herself. My father left her when she was forty and he was sixty-six . . . for a woman of twenty-eight. It did something to my mother’s mind, left her a little unhinged. She wanted my father to regret leaving her, even though he was in London and rarely thought about her, much less saw her. I was still living with her when she started. ‘You’ll see, Pierre,’ she’d say, ‘you’re going to have the most beautiful mother in France.’

“Instead, she became addicted to the knife. Every time she tried to fix something, it got worse. She says she’s content to live with her face and others will have to, as well.” He chuckled fondly. “She really is a true eccentric.” Then he looked up from his plate, his face serious. “Still, no woman should have to go through that, Anna.”

“But if girls and women were taught to have more self-respect—”

“Can the world change that quickly? Look at the actors, the tycoons, the politicians, the athletes. Are they choosing women for their sense of self-respect? Look at the real world, Anna—the world where older men remain dignified while older women are scorned. It’s not just my mother I’m thinking of. It’s every woman who’s tried to find work once she’s mature or who’s felt invisible or devalued after her fortieth birthday. If you ask me, that’s even more important.”

“Women like me?” she murmured.

“Yes, women like you, Anna. Women who are equal to their male counterparts and their younger competitors in every way. Women who are underpaid, ignored, told, ‘Sorry, nothing for you.’ We can’t quickly change how people think, but we can change how women look.”

She stared at the tablecloth, silent, as the waiter removed their plates and Pierre ordered coffee. She took a deep breath, trying to master her emotions. Damn it, it was true. She did feel invisible. Just last night, at a little bistro near the hotel, she’d spotted a man on his own she thought was gazing at her with interest, until she lifted her face into the light. And now the man sitting opposite her—the man whose company had left her high and dry and feeling old and useless in the first place—was the only person tossing her a lifeline.

“That’s what Madame X does,” she said finally. “Isn’t that the whole point of the line, to make older women look and feel more attractive?”

“Yes, of course. But Madame X isn’t really all that different from a lot of other lines on the market, is it? The woman underneath the makeup knows her looks are the result of temporary plumping ingredients that swell the skin and light-reflecting minerals that camouflage wrinkles. She knows it can’t do more than make her look good
for her age
—and only until she washes her face. What if she looked just as good or even better without makeup?”

“Don’t lasers do that?”

Barton shook his head. “Laser is still a quasi-surgical procedure. And it has drawbacks: it’s expensive, not successful at rejuvenating the neck, needs to be repeated, and causes thinning or whitening of the skin over time. What if looking thirty years younger was as simple as moisturizing?”

“Retinol?”

He shrugged, very Frenchly, Anna thought. “We’ve done work with it. We have a line for doctors and we’re working on one for consumers. But retinol is what you Americans would call the minor leagues. I’m talking about wiping decades off a woman’s skin, not a year or two.”

“Thirty years?” He nodded. “Your mother’s hands?”

“Beautiful, aren’t they? She’s been using the formula for six months now. Before that, like Madeleine Castaing, she was never seen without leather gloves, indoors or out, summer or winter.” He pulled out a photo. “She pretends she did it as a favor to me, but I know she’s pleased. Here are her hands before.”

Elderly hands were all alike, Anna thought. Like these. Liver-spotted, with bulging knuckles, ropy veins, and crêpey skin. “Why aren’t her knuckles big like this now?”

“The formula—we’ll call it Youngskin for now—stimulates elastin and collagen regeneration, as well as the fat-growth layer, at about a hundred-to-one ratio compared to retinol.”

“And elastin and collagen, like fat, make skin look young and are depleted with age and sun exposure.”

“Good.” He nodded, pleased with her knowledge. “Youngskin stimulates growth factors while removing surface cells and increasing overall cell turnover to an unprecedented degree. Maman’s knuckles were never really big, not as if she’d had arthritis; she just didn’t have any padding, so they stood out. Her hands don’t look like a teenager’s, but years have fallen away.”

“And this is—what?—a skincare product from Coscom or a pharmaceutical from Barton?”

“You know about
cosmeceuticals
, I take it? Skincare meets medicine?” When she nodded, he went on. “Youngskin is the cosmeceutical to end all cosmeceuticals. We’re using pharmaceutical-grade ingredients in a cosmetic product meeting FDA approval.”

“It’s been FDA approved?”

“Pending. But we’ll launch the product via BarPharm to dermatologists in the UK and US in about nine months, then about three months later, a less intensive nonprescription version with the Coscom label will hit department stores. We’ve subjected it to FDA-level tests and standards so it’s certain to make the grade. We need a pro on board for at least the next year, someone who can get to know the product inside and out, who can handle all the promotional materials, who can be passionate about it. You’d be ideal.”

“Why me?”

“I saw what you did for Madame X, and I was deeply impressed. Not just the launch, Anna, or the research into the billions of dollars spent on anti-aging purchases, but your psychological grasp of the whole look-good-feel-great aspect of it all. I was already convinced months ago no one could do it better than you—then Clive had to spoil it by taking the account away from you without discussing it with me first. I want you back on board.”

“I’m very flattered, Mr. Barton—”

“Pierre.”

“Yes. Pierre. I’m very flattered, but why not just give me back the Coscom account? I’m not saying I’m not worth it, but why so much money, and why so much secrecy? I understand it’s revolutionary, but—”

“It’s more than revolutionary, Anna. It’s explosive. It will change the world.” His eyes gleamed. “We’ll discuss the final details over a light dinner, all right? Then you’ll either say yes and jump on board or you’ll enjoy a couple more days in Paris before heading back to Los Angeles to concentrate on your business there, knowing you need suffer through no more meals with me.”

He got to his feet, his abruptness unnerving her. He was making it sound ambiguous with that
or
. “I want to know two things,” she said firmly, as she stood. “First, how many other people are being screened for this account?”

“So far, just you. This is too big a deal to hold auditions. As with any important hire, I prefer to consider one candidate at a time, starting at the top.”

She nodded. “And how would I coordinate your London team from California?”

“Actually,” he said slowly, “you wouldn’t be in Los Angeles. You’d work in London for a year. BarPharm would take care of your mortgage as well as providing you with a flat in central London. It’s very important that you use the product, you see. Use it and keep a diary of how it makes you feel to be twenty-five again.”

She was dumbfounded. Why had he waited until now to tell her this? She was going to be some rich chemist’s guinea pig?

As earlier, he was attuned to her thoughts. “It’s not dangerous, and it’s reversible. But you
must
be able to empathize completely with the customer and be able to use your own experience to tell her how great life is going to be. Don’t you think you’d enjoy looking that young again?”

“That’s something I need to think about,” she said as he took her elbow and steered her gently toward the exit. “Um, mustn’t we wait for the lunch check?”

His laughter sounded a little relieved. “It’s a private restaurant. Everything is paid for on account. No cash changes hands.”

Ah, yes,
she mused,
for those not scrambling to stay afloat, how simple life can be
.

She spent the afternoon letting her feet take her where they wished, until they eventually led her over to the Marais. She stood for a long time gazing up at the small hotel she and David used to stay in. Its continued existence, decades after he’d probably forgotten who she was, brought tears to her eyes. But she forced herself to turn away. What was past was past.

Eventually, she took the Metro back to her hotel to rest before changing into more casual clothes and making her way to the Boulevard St. Germain and Café de Flore. Her mind had pretty much made itself up as she walked. A million pounds, her mortgage paid, and a free apartment to boot? She’d never see an offer like this again. But she still had some questions.

Barton was already there, inputting something on his laptop, which he quickly put away when she entered. “Are you always working?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he assured her, pouring her a glass of red wine from the bottle on the table. “I was emailing my wife.”

“She didn’t come with you?”

“No, she’s in Moscow—we try to get over there at least three times a year. This time, she’s taken Lucas and Leo so they could be with their grandmother for their twelfth birthday.”

She should have known a man like Barton would have a trophy wife—a Russian he’d met in Paris, as she recalled from his bio. Again, he knew what she was thinking. “Marina’s not as young as your face says you think she is. She was over forty when the boys were born.”

“That’s not at all what I was thinking,” she lied, blushing.

He smiled. “Okay. Have you given more thought to my offer?”

“I have. And I’ve come up with some questions.”

He shook his head at an approaching waiter. “Fire away.”

“How do I explain my absence to friends? And what happens at the end of my contract? Am I supposed to just show up in Los Angeles looking like someone else?”

“First, can’t you just be traveling, or working on some imaginary project?”

She thought about it. “I suppose. Everyone keeps saying I should take advantage of losing Coscom as an opportunity to hit the road.”

“There you go, then. You can do online research on anywhere you say you are. Regarding your reentry, looking like someone in her twenties or forties is up to you. You’ll be able to choose an age at the end. We need you to look like someone in her midtwenties for the research, as some women will choose the option to work with a doctor and use the stronger version to look even younger, but we’ll cut back gradually before the product launch because we also want to experience how it will actually feel for the retail customer. But you get to choose your end result. We’ll supply you with both the weaker over-the-counter formula, and enough of the dermatologist formula for the occasional deeper treatment as well. I’d suggest you go home looking remarkably refreshed from your trip and perhaps fifteen years younger. You’ll retain the product account if you like—we’ll say you ran into me in London as your final port of call—at a salary to be determined at your contract’s end. And, by the way, you’ll also receive a salary for working in London, at a lower rate than you’re used to and commensurate for someone younger, of course.”

“And in London? What if I run into people I know?”