I feel a shiver. A team of private detectives? To find me? That has to be classed as... unusual behavior. What kind of person does that? And why?
My happy-go-lucky nature wants to laugh it off as a whim of a wealthy woman with not much to accomplish but to do lunch with her friends and look good, but there's an intensity in her expression that makes my stomach twist with warning.
I glance around the empty café in a daze, and for a moment, I wish Lena, the other barista, were here. I want to ask her if she too can see Carolyn Bessant, because right now, it feels like I’m hallucinating. Maybe the exhaustion has gotten to me. I fell asleep while standing up, and this is all just a very crazy dream.
I turn back towards Carolyn warily. "You hired a team of investigators to find your doppelganger? Why?"
Her smile widens. It appears artless, but there's a calculated edge to the expression in her eyes, like she's rehearsed this scene. "Because I have a proposition for you. I want to hire you to impersonate me for three months. And in return, I will transfer two hundred thousand dollars into your account tax-free." She says it casually, like she is offering to buy me a cappuccino and a slice of cake, but her words hit me like she has injected a strong drug straight into my veins.
My breath catches, and my eyes widen. Two hundred thousand just to impersonate her for three months? That's life-changing money—enough to pay off the rest of my student loan,move to a better apartment, and maybe even start that little art studio I've always dreamed about. A mix of excitement and fear bubbles in the pit of my stomach.
“Fifty thousand upfront on the day you agree to my proposal," she continues in a matter-of-fact tone, "and the remainder to be split into three equal amounts and deposited into your account at the end of every month you manage to stay in character."
Her expression is serious. There is not the least hint of a joke that I can see.
The warmth and humidity are causing sweat patches under my arms, but she seems impervious to the heat. I grip the table edge to steady myself. The wood feels firm and smooth under my fingers. Can she be real? No, hang on, Juliet... This is too easy. Too good to be true. I'm kind, but not naïve: If there is one thing New York has taught me, it is to question everything. People don't throw this kind of cash at you for nothing.
Can this deal be an elaborate con? Is she going to scam me out of the three thousand dollars I have in my savings account? But would a woman like her be wasting this much time to gain three thousand dollars? Her belt alone probably costs that much.
"Impersonate you? Why?" My voice trembles, revealing how vulnerable I feel.
She leans closer, and her eyes look haunted. "Because I just need a break from my life, Juliet. I swear, I'll go mad, otherwise." She pauses, and her gaze shifts towards the window before returning to me. "My life... It's suffocating me. I just need a little time away, to breathe again and become strong. I’ve lost my way, Juliet. I need to find myself."
Empathy stirs inside me despite my skepticism. I've felt trapped too, in this job, this city. But hers is a designer world. What’s she got to be unhappy about? "Okay, but... what's sointolerable about your life that you need to run away?” I let my eyes trail down her expensive outfit. “At first glance, you look like you have an enviable life."
She shakes her head, and something close to real despair flashes in her eyes, but when she speaks, her tone is brisk and cold. “What’s so intolerable? Where do I begin?” She raises her hand and begins to tick off the points on her fingers. "Top of the list, my workaholic husband, Blake. Day and night, he works, oblivious to everything and everyone else. Especially me, his own wife. I hate to admit it, but he has lost all interest in me. To the point, he doesn't even notice when I come into the room.”
There's real bitterness there. The hurt in her eyes is genuine too. It makes her seem more human. I believe her and feel a pang of sympathy for her. Blake. The name conjures an image of an aloof tycoon.
“I’m sorry. That sounds rough," I concede.
She nods and resumes ticking off her list on her fingers. "Next is my stepdaughter, Freya. How she loves to loathe her wicked stepmother." Her voice cracks just a little on the word stepmother.
How old is she?” I ask.
“Five going on seventeen,” she replies, rolling her eyes.
The sarcasm and contempt in her voice make it obvious that she detests the child too. Poor kid. She is evidently caught in an adult mess.
“Then,” she continues, hitting her middle finger. “There is my dear mother-in-law.” Her wry smile is full of frustration. "She drives me up the wall. You know the kind, right? So judgy, so full of sage advice. She always knows better. The interference in my marriage is so well-meaning and endless."
Her life sounds like a soap opera, but the money... God, the money. "So, what exactly would I have to do?"
"All you have to do is slip into my life for three months. You don’t know them, and you don’t owe them anything, so you can just ignore them all. Spend most of your time shopping and meeting your friends," she says, her voice gaining enthusiasm, like she is selling a vacation.
I bite my lip. “And what will you do while I’m impersonating you?”
“I’ll be in Europe,” she says simply.
Europe—images of sipping coffee in beautiful Parisian cafes, and watching sunsets over quaint Italian towns flash into my mind, a stark contrast to my sweaty reality.
“I need some time in places where no one knows me,” she explains. “So, I can rejuvenate and find the strength inside me to come back and do things differently. I realize I’ve let things slip, and if I don’t make some changes quickly, everything is going to fall apart. And I’m going to lose everything.”
“Why can’t you just tell your family the truth? That you want to go away for a while to get your act together. I’m sure they’ll support you.”
“I can’t do that. Such an absence will cause a scandal in my social circle. People will talk. My marriage will not survive the merciless gossip.” She looks at me intently, gauging my reaction.
I feel the tension build inside me. Can this really be happening? To me?
