Younger by Suzanne Munshower Page A

you have the choice of British or American teachers for private English lessons,” she explained when Anna commented. “We choose British if we wish to sound classy.”
    “I’ll have you talking unclassy pretty soon,” Chyna promised, and with that, the deal was done.
    “Come at ten tomorrow and I’ll have keys,” Kirsten said when they were leaving.
    “What’s your plan, then?” Chyna asked Anna when they were sitting in a café over big salads that evening. “You’re outta here in a month, right?”
    “I might leave even sooner if my boyfriend can take a few weeks off and wants to meet someplace else,” she said, laying the groundwork for any sudden departure.
    “Not going back to the States?”
    “No plans yet. Right now, I’m happy to be here.” And to be alive, she added to herself.
    It was only eight o’clock when they got back to the hostel. “What now?” Chyna asked as Anna pushed the button for the elevator. “Want to come check out a club later? I’m having a drink with these Aussies I met earlier, then we’re going out. Would you believe some clubs here have happy hour from two to four—in the morning? Mega-awesome, huh?”
    “Early to bed for me. I ran all over town today. But have fun.”
    “Oh, I will. And I’ll try not to crash into the furniture when I come in!”
    Anna could still hear Chyna’s high-pitched laughter as the elevator doors closed behind her. Maybe she’d be glad to get away from so much youthful exuberance at some point, but the girl’s enthusiasm was cheering. Chyna also kept her from being easy to spot. That might not make them bosom buddies, but it made her almost as good as a real friend.

Chapter 7

     
    The rest of that first week at the manor house was more of the same, with the addition—starting on Day Two after a prebreakfast piece of fruit and cup of tea at half past six—with a full workout with Joe, a former United States Marine turned exacting personal trainer. Joe’s specialty was getting stars in shape for movies, and Anna soon understood how he could turn any quivering blob of jelly into muscle in record time.
    She was puzzled that all these coaches were so incurious about her. No one asked any questions. Nor did they say anything about their own lives.
    She was nosy. She decided Fleur would be the easiest nut to crack, so in between discussing trends, she tried a little casual pumping.
    “Do you coach people like this all the time?”
    “No, not really.”
    “So how did my people get in touch with you?”
    “The usual channels. You know.”
    “Mmmn. And your next job? Is . . . ?”
    Finally, Fleur snapped. “Look, Lisa,” she said, her voice rising, “I need this gig. And, as I’m sure you know, part of the agreement is that I can’t talk about anything except what I’m here for. So please don’t do this.”
    “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Fleur. You must think the whole setup is weird anyhow.”
    “If your producer has money for all this”—her sweeping gesture encompassed the house, the lessons—“the rest is none of my business. He must know what he’s doing.”
    After that, Anna shut up and submitted to her coaches’ supposed expertise, though she was doing little more than humoring them. When the end of the week finally arrived, she thought objectively that she was moving and sounding more like a younger woman, had a bit better grasp of current lingo, and could tell the difference between bands previously unknown to her. But she considered most of the training a waste of her time and Barton Pharmaceuticals’ money.
    At the end of the week, she celebrated with a festival of old films from back when she actually had been young, movies perhaps no one that age now had even heard of, much less seen, with one common theme: becoming someone else. Watching movies like Educating Rita and Zelig was her way of not thinking about the next day, when she’d be driven somewhere unknown to meet some mysterious doctor who would begin