Vicky raises her glass half-heartedly. “Cheers, I guess,” she says, clearly not a happy camper.
We clink glasses and sip. Still starving from my first day as a nanny, I dive into the basket—soft rolls, crispy breadsticks, small cheddar muffins that I’m tempted to stuff into my pockets. The good thing about this assignment: I don’t have to worry about carbs for a while. My real body is hibernating under all the rubber and might not make an appearance until spring.
“And the FBI needs you to look likethisbecause…”
“They don’t want me to call attention to myself.”
“They’re not afraid you’ll frighten small children?”
“The family doesn’t have any.”
“Well, that’s good. So what will you be doing for them? Scrubbing floors?”
Here comes the tricky part. “Taking care of a baby.”
“What?”
Vicky says that so loudly, a woman at the next table whips around to make sure everything is okay. Then she spots Vicky’s faux Birkin bag next to her chair and stares at it longingly. That’s the charm of my friend. She makes even a knockoff pocketbook look desirable.
“Okay,” Vicky says. “Now I’mreallyworried.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m—”
“Not about you. About thebaby. And the country. The FBI couldn’t find anyone else on the entire Eastern Seaboard who would be better suited for this job? Just look around.”
I do. The place is crawling with young people checkingthemselves out in the frosted mirrors. We hear the shrieks and chatter of Gen Z’ers three-deep at the bar all trying to impress one another.
“Anybodyhere would be a wiser choice than—”
Just then, a busboy drops a tray. Metallic clatter and then the sound of breaking glass.
“Well, maybe not him,” Vicky says. She thinks about this for a moment. “Actually—yes. Him too. I’dstillpick him over you.”
“I get it,” I say.
She shakes her head in disbelief. “Well, good luck.” She downs the rest of her Negroni in a single gulp and holds her empty glass up to the waiter, who is hovering again.
“May I tell you about tonight’s specials?” he asks.
“No need. We’ll both have the lobster ravioli,” I say. He looks crestfallen. He was probably looking forward to spending a little more time at our table.
“Can I ask what made you agree to this job?” Vicky asks as the waiter departs.
“It’s only for a few months. He promised they’ll restore my pension. And my reputation.”
“Whichhedestroyed.”
I decide to ignore this remark, even though she’s absolutely right. “Plus, I get a car. If I handle this well, it might lead to other things.”
She takes a deep breath. “So you sold your soul to the devil.”
“Notsold,” I say, dipping the last piece of focaccia intothe olive oil. “Rented. It’s all very under-the-radar. They told me not to tell anybody. Strict orders.”
“But you’re telling me because…?”
A delicate question. How do I put this? I have to be honest without frightening her. “Well, like any FBI assignment, this job is not without risks. Think of this as a disaster check-in. Next of kin and all that. Just in case, at some point, you have to identify my body.”
She looks me up and down, taking in the brown liner that highlights every wrinkle, my ridiculously bulbous bosom, my hair that looks as if it were styled with a Weedwacker.
