Page 8 of Replacement

I hang up the phone. Then release a long groan and pull the covers up over my head.

If it’s so hard to have merely a phone conversation with William, I have no idea how I’ll manage to interact with him in person.

That’s still a week away though. I’ll be more used to being Amber by then.

I better be. Because William Worthing is a sharp, intelligent man. If Amber, with all her wiles, wasn’t able to manipulate him, there’s not much chance that I’ll be able to do it either.

Why the hell am I even doing this? The whole thing is utterly ridiculous. Like a bad soap opera.

But then I close my eyes and let out a breath, reviewing all the locked doors and security personnel in place between me and the rest of the world.

There’s no way Montaigne can reach me in here.

For tonight at least I’m safe.

2

A week later,William calls while I’m eating dinner to let me know he won’t be home until very late tonight.

I’m ridiculously relieved since it means I can be asleep when he arrives and won’t have to talk to him until morning. At this point, an extra night of safety isn’t likely to make a difference, but I’ll take it anyway.

The past week has gone remarkably smoothly. No one appears to suspect for even a moment that I’m not Amber.

Maybe I’m better than I thought at playing a role and putting on an act, but it can’t be untapped talent alone. No one seems to know Amber at all. Like me, she’s been living a life of distance, of emotional isolation. She clearly has a lot of social acquaintances—if the hundreds of contacts in her phone are any evidence—but, as she told me herself, she doesn’t have any real friends.

I reply to several casual text messages a day from a variety of affluent people who want to tell Amber about a new hairstyle, a new purchase, a new lover. But almost no one actually phones to talk to her except William, who dutifully calls once a day to check in.

A couple of days ago, I saw in Amber’s calendar that she was supposed to meet a friend for lunch at a fancy bistro. I was incredibly nervous about pulling off the lunch, but it wasn’t difficult at all. The friend raved about Amber’s new blond hair for a while but otherwise kept up a steady, whiny ramble on her home renovations and her infuriating husband. I smiled, nodded, and made sympathetic murmurs, and that was all I needed to do to sustain the conversation.

Later that same day, William’s housekeeper, Greta, made a random comment of surprise that I haven’t shopped all week, evidently a significant change from Amber’s normal routine, so I went shopping the next day, paying for my purchases with the credit card in Amber’s wallet.

I’m sure there’s a limit on the card, but the several exorbitantly priced items I bought didn’t trigger it.

I didn’t really want to go shopping.

Amber’s huge closet is like a high-end boutique with an endless supply of luxurious silks, cashmeres, and leathers. None of the clothes fit my preferred style. All the shoes have very high heels and narrow toes. Most of the outfits are white, cream, or soft pastels—with only a few dramatic splashes of color in shoes, purses, and scarves. I’ve lived for the past week in constant fear of spilling something on myself and ruining an outfit worth thousands of dollars.

On my shopping trip, I was tempted to buy clothes that are more my style, but that would be a mistake. Amber obviously has a distinctive fashion sense, and any variation will draw attention to me.

So I picked out a gorgeous Prada bag in a deep purple that I absolutely love since Amber often chooses bolder colors in accessories. And then I looked for something more comfortable to sleep in.

For three nights in a row, I wore the soft white pajamas since everything else in Amber’s pajama drawer is a slinky teddy or a sexy nightgown with lace and ties and other features that make it nearly impossible for me to relax in. At the store, I eyed the neatly folded piles of soft pajama pants and knit tops with visceral craving since those are exactly the kind of sleepwear I prefer. But it would be out of character for Amber, and William will be returning from his trip soon.

So I carefully picked out some other choices—decadent enough to be convincing for Amber but comfortable enough to actually sleep in. If William asks about the change of style, I’ll say I’m trying something new.

After hanging up on my brief conversation with William, which mostly consisted of him telling me his flight is delayed because of bad weather, I finish my solitary dinner. Then I take a bath, put on a pair of my new pajamas—loose pants and fluttery tank made of a deep red Chinese silk—and stretch out to read in the media room, the only room in the apartment with a somewhat comfortable couch.

I’ve actually been rather restless this week—almost bored, if such a word can be applied with an undercurrent of lurking anxiety. I’m not sure exactly what Amber does with her time. But I can’t find much to do, and I’m not long entertained by shopping or visiting day spas.

I’ve spent the past month cooped up in a dingy studio apartment, afraid of setting foot outside. But this week I’ve been freed of that fear. It’s like a miracle, but it’s also left me ready to do… something.

Anything.

I would love to craft some jewelry right now, but I have neither supplies nor a suitable space to work.

So I’ve been using the high-end exercise equipment in the workout room for hours every morning, far exceeding my maybe-once-a-week exercise routine. At least it helps get rid of some energy.

One of the only real scares I’ve had was yesterday when William wanted to know why I stopped going to the gym—something he must have found out from his driver since I certainly didn’t mention it.

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