Still Me

  "But Josh said--"

  "You want me to create something to satisfy the ego of some woman who can't draw and doesn't want to be shown up in front of her ladies who lunch . . ." He shook his head. "You want me to draw you a greeting card."

  "Mr. Lipkott. Please. I probably haven't explained it very well. I--"

  "You explained it just fine."

  "But Josh said--"

  "Josh said nothing about greeting cards. I hate that charity dinner shit."

  "Me also." Agnes stood in the doorway. She took a step into the room, glancing down to make sure she was not stepping onto one of the tubes of paint or bits of paper that littered the floor. She held out a long, pale hand. "Agnes Gopnik. I hate this charity shit too."

  Steven Lipkott stood slowly and then, almost as if it were an impulse from a more courtly age that he had little control over, raised his hand to shake hers. He couldn't take his eyes from her face. I had forgotten that Agnes got you like that at first meeting.

  "Mr. Lipkott--is that right? Lipkott? I know this is not a normal thing for you. But I have to go to this thing with room of witches. You know? Actual witches. And I draw like three-year-old in mittens. If I have to go and show them my drawing they bitch about me more than they do already." She sat down and pulled a cigarette from her handbag. She reached across and picked up a lighter that sat on one of his painting tables and lit her cigarette. Steven Lipkott was still watching her, his chopsticks loose in his hand.

  "I am not from this place. I am Polish masseuse. There is no shame in this. But I do not want to give these witches chance to look down on me again. Do you know how it is to have people look down on you?" She exhaled, gazing at him, her head tilted, so that smoke trickled horizontally toward him. I thought he might actually have inhaled.

  "I--uh--yeah."

  "So it is one small thing I am asking you. To help me. I know this is not your thing and that you are serious artist, but I really need help. And I will pay you very good money."

  The room fell silent. A phone vibrated in my back pocket. I tried to ignore it. For that moment I knew I should not move. We three stood there for an eternity.

  "Okay," he said finally. "But on one condition."

  "Name it."

  "I draw you."

  For a minute nobody spoke. Agnes raised an eyebrow, then took a slow drag of her cigarette, her eyes not leaving his. "Me."

  "Can't be the first time someone's asked."

  "Why me?"

  "Don't play the ingenue."

  He smiled then, and she kept her face straight, as if deciding whether to be insulted. Her eyes dropped to her feet, and, when she lifted them, there it was, her smile, small, speculative, a prize he believed he had won.

  She stubbed out her cigarette on the floor. "How long will it take?"

  He shoved the carton of noodles to one side and reached for a white pad of thick paper. It might have been only me who noticed the way his voice lowered in volume. "Depends how good you are at keeping still."

  --

  Minutes later I was back in the car. I closed the door. Garry was listening to his tapes.

  "Por favor, habla mas despacio."

  "Pohr fah-VOR, AH-blah mahs dehsPAHS-ee-oh." He slapped the dashboard with a fat palm. "Ah, crap. Lemme try that again. AHblamahsdehsPAHSeeoh." He practiced three more lines, then turned to me. "She gonna be long?"

  I stared out of the window at the blank windows of the second floor. "I really hope not," I said.

  --

  Agnes finally emerged at a quarter to four, an hour and three-quarters after Garry and I had run out of our already limited conversation. After watching a cable comedy show downloaded on his iPad (he didn't offer to share it with me) he had nodded off, his chins resting on the bulk of his chest as he snored lightly. I sat in the back of the car growing increasingly tense as the minutes ticked by, sending periodic messages to Sam that were variations on: She's not back yet. Still not back. Omigod, what on earth is she doing in there? He had had lunch in a tiny deli across town and said he was so hungry he could eat fifteen horses. He sounded cheerful, relaxed, and every word we exchanged told me I was in the wrong place, that I should be beside him, leaning against him, feeling his voice rumble in my ear. I had started to hate Agnes.

  And suddenly there she was, striding out of the building with a broad smile and a flat package under her arm.

  "Oh, thank God," I said.

  Garry woke with a start and hurried around the car to open the door for her. She slid in calmly, as if she had been gone two minutes instead of two hours. She brought with her the faint scents of cigarettes and turpentine.

  "We need to stop at McNally Jackson on the way back. To get some pretty paper to wrap it in."

  "We have wrapping paper at the--"

  "Steven told me about this special hand-pressed paper. I want to wrap it in this special paper. Garry, you know the place I mean? We can drop down to SoHo on the way back, yes?" She waved a hand.

  I sat back, faintly despairing. Garry set off, bumping the limo gently over the potholed car park as he headed back to what he considered civilization.

  --

  We arrived back at Fifth Avenue at four forty. As Agnes climbed out, I hurried out beside her, clutching the bag with the special paper.

  "Agnes, I--I was wondering . . . what you said about me leaving early today . . ."

  "I don't know whether to wear the Temperley or the Badgley Mischka this evening. What do you think?"

  I tried to recall either dress. Failed. I was trying to calculate how long it would take me to get over to Times Square, where Sam was now waiting. "The Temperley, I think. Definitely. It's perfect. Agnes--you remember you said I might be able to leave early today?"

  "But it's such a dark blue. I'm not sure this blue is a good color on me. And the shoes that go with it rub on my heel."

  "We talked last week. Would it be okay? It's just I really want to see Sam off at the airport." I fought to keep the irritation from my voice.

  "Sam?" She nodded a greeting at Ashok.

  "My boyfriend."

  She considered this. "Mm. Okay. Oh, they are going to be so impressed with this drawing. Steven is genius, you know? Actual genius."

  "So I can go?"

  "Sure."

  My shoulders sagged with relief. If I left in ten minutes I could get the subway south and be with him by five thirty. That would still give us an hour and a bit together. Better than nothing.

  The lift doors closed behind us. Agnes opened a compact and checked her lipstick, pouting at her reflection. "But maybe just stay until I'm dressed. I need second opinion on this Temperley."

  --

  Agnes changed her outfit four times. I was too late to meet Sam in Midtown, Times Square or anywhere else. Instead I got to JFK fifteen minutes before he had to head through security. I shoved my way past the other passengers to where I could see him standing in front of the departures board, and hurled myself through the airport doors and against his back. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

  We held each other for a minute.

  "What happened?"

  "Agnes happened."

  "Wasn't she going to let you out early? I thought she was your mate."

  "She was just obsessed by this artwork thing and it all went . . . Oh, God, it was maddening." I threw my hands into the air. "What am I even doing in this stupid job, Sam? She made me wait because she couldn't work out what dress to wear. At least Will actually needed me."

  He tilted his head and touched his forehead to mine. "We had this morning."

  I kissed him, reaching around his neck so that I could place my whole self against him. We stayed there, eyes closed, as the airport moved and swayed around us.

  And then my phone rang.

  "I'm ignoring it," I said, into his chest.

  It continued to ring, insistently.

  "It might be her." He held me gently away from him.

  I let out a low growl, then pulled my phone
from my back pocket and put it to my ear. "Agnes?" I struggled to keep the irritation from my voice.

  "It's Josh. I was just calling to see how today went."

  "Josh! Um . . . oh. Yes, it was fine. Thank you!" I turned away slightly, putting my hand up to my other ear. I felt Sam stiffen beside me.

  "So he did the drawing for you?"

  "He did. She's really happy. Thank you so much for organizing it. Listen, I'm in the middle of something right now, but thank you. It really was incredibly kind of you."

  "Glad it worked out. Listen, give me a call, yeah? Let's grab a coffee sometime."

  "Sure!" I ended the call to find Sam watching me.

  "Josh."

  I put the phone back into my pocket.

  "The guy you met at the ball."

  "It's a long story."

  "Okay."

  "He helped me sort this drawing for Agnes today. I was desperate."

  "So you had his number."

  "It's New York. Everyone has everyone's number."

  He dragged his hand over the top of his head and turned away.

  "It's nothing. Really." I took a step toward him, pulled him by his belt buckle. I could feel the weekend sliding away from me again. "Sam . . . Sam . . ."

  He deflated, put his arms around me. He rested his chin on the top of my head and moved his from side to side. "This is . . ."

  "I know," I said. "I know it is. But I love you and you love me and at least we managed to do a bit of the getting-naked thing. And it was great, wasn't it? The getting-naked thing?"

  "For, like, five minutes."

  "Best five minutes of the last four weeks. Five minutes that will keep me going for the next four."

  "Except it's seven."

  I slid my hands into his back pockets. "Don't let's end this badly. Please. I don't want you to go away angry because of some stupid call from someone who is literally nothing to me."

  His face softened when he held my gaze, as it always did. It was one of the things I loved about him, the way his features, so brutal in repose, melted when he looked at me. "I'm not pissed off at you. I'm pissed off at myself. And airline food or burritos or whatever it was. And your woman there who can't apparently put on a dress by herself."

  "I'll be back for Christmas. For a whole week."

  Sam frowned. He took my face in his hands. They were warm and slightly rough. We stood there for a moment, and then we kissed, and some decades later he straightened up and glanced at the board.

  "And now you have to go."

  "And now I have to go."

  I swallowed the lump that had risen in my throat. He kissed me once more, then swung his bag over his shoulder. I stood on the concourse, watching the space where he had been for a full minute after security had swallowed him.

  --

  In general, I'm not a moody person. I'm not very good at the whole door-slamming, scowling, eye-rolling thing. But that evening I made my way back to the city, pushed my way through the crowds on the subway platform, elbows out, and scowled like a native. Throughout the journey I found myself checking the time. He's in the departures lounge. He'll be boarding. And . . . he's gone. The moment his plane was due to take off I felt something sink inside me and my mood darkened even further. I picked up some takeout sushi and walked from the subway station to the Gopniks' building. When I got to my little room I sat and stared at the container, then at the wall, and knew I couldn't stay there alone with my thoughts so I knocked on Nathan's door.

  "C'min!"

  Nathan was watching American football, holding a beer. He was wearing a pair of surfer shorts and a T-shirt. He looked up at me expectantly, and with the faintest of delays, in the way people do when they're letting you know that they're really locked into something else.

  "Can I eat my dinner in here with you?"

  He tore his gaze away from the screen again. "Bad day?"

  I nodded.

  "Need a hug?"

  I shook my head. "Just a virtual one. If you're nice to me I'll probably cry."

  "Ah. Your man gone home, has he?"

  "It was a disaster, Nathan. He was sick for pretty much the whole thing and then Agnes wouldn't let me have the time off she promised me today so I barely got to see him and when I did it kept getting . . . awkward between us."

  Nathan turned down the television with a sigh, and patted the side of the bed. I climbed up, and placed my takeout bag on my lap where, later, I would discover soy sauce had leaked through onto my work trousers. I rested my head on his shoulder.

  "Long-distance relationships are tough," Nathan pronounced, as if he was the first person to have considered such a thing. Then he added, "Like, really tough."

  "Right."

  "It's not just the sex, and the inevitable jealousy--"

  "We're not jealous people."

  "But he's not going to be the first person you tell stuff to. The day-to-day bits and pieces. And that stuff is important."

  He proffered his beer and I took a swig, handing it back to him. "We did know it was going to be hard. I mean we talked about all this before I left. But you know what's really bugging me?"

  He dragged his gaze back from the screen. "Go on."

  "Agnes knew how much I wanted to spend time with Sam. We'd talked about it. She was the one saying we had to be together, that we shouldn't be apart, blah-blah-blah. And then she made me stay with her till the absolute last minute."

  "That's the job, Lou. They come first."

  "But she knew how important it was to me."

  "Maybe."

  "She's meant to be my friend."

  Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Lou. The Traynors were not normal employers. Will was not a normal employer. Neither are the Gopniks. These people may act nice, but ultimately you have to remember this is a power relationship. It's a business transaction." He took a swig of his beer. "You know what happened to the Gopniks' last social secretary? Agnes told Old Man Gopnik that she was talking about her behind her back, spreading secrets. So they sacked her. After twenty-two years. They sacked her."

  "And was she?"

  "Was she what?"

  "Spreading secrets?"

  "I don't know. Not the point, though, is it?"

  I didn't want to contradict him but to explain why Agnes and I were different would have meant betraying her. So I said nothing.

  Nathan seemed about to say something, then changed his mind.

  "What?"

  "Look . . . nobody can have everything."

  "What do you mean?"

  "This is a really great job, right? I mean, you might not think that tonight, but you've got a great situation in the heart of New York, a good wage, and a decent employer. You get to go to all sorts of great places, and some occasional perks. They bought you a nearly-three-thousand-dollar ball dress, right? I got to go to the Bahamas with Mr. G a couple of months ago. Five-star hotel, beachfront room, the lot. Just for a couple of hours' work a day. So we're lucky. But in the long term, the cost of all that might turn out to be a relationship with someone whose life is completely different and a million miles away. That's the choice you make when you head out."

  I stared at him.

  "I just think you've got to be realistic about these things."

  "You're not really helping, Nathan."

  "I'm being straight with you. And, hey, look on the bright side. I heard you did a great job today with the drawing. Mr. G told me he was really impressed."

  "They really liked it?" I tried to suppress my glow of pleasure.

  "Aw, man. Seriously. Loved it. She's going to knock those charity ladies dead."

  I leaned against him, and he switched the volume back up. "Thanks, Nathan," I said, and opened my sushi. "You're a mate."

  He grimaced slightly. "Yeah. That whole fishy thing. Any chance you could wait until you're in your own room?"

  I closed my sushi box. He was right. Nobody could have everything.

  10

  From: [email protected]
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  To: [email protected]

  Hey, Mum,

  Sorry for the late reply. It's quite busy here! Never a dull moment!

  I'm glad you liked the pictures. Yes, the carpets are 100 percent wool, some of the rugs are silk, the wood is definitely not veneer, and I asked Ilaria and they get their curtains dry-cleaned once a year while they spend a month in the Hamptons. The cleaners are very thorough but Ilaria does the kitchen floor every day herself because she doesn't trust them.

  Yes, Mrs. Gopnik does have a walk-in shower and also a walk-in wardrobe in her dressing room. She is very fond of her dressing room and spends a lot of time in there on the phone to her mum in Poland. I didn't have time to count the shoes like you asked but I'd say there are well over a hundred pairs. She has them stacked in boxes with pictures of them stuck to the front just so she knows which is which. When she gets a new pair it's my job to take the picture. She has a camera just for her shoe boxes!

  I'm glad the art course went well and the Better Communication for Couples class sounds grand, but you must tell Dad that it's not to do with Bedroom Stuff. He's sent me three emails this week, asking if I think he could fake a heart murmur.

  Sorry to hear that Granddad's been under the weather. Is he still hiding his vegetables under the table? Are you sure you have to give up your night classes? Seems like a shame.

  Okay--got to go. Agnes is calling me. I'll let you know about Christmas, but don't worry, I will be there.

  Love you

  Louisa xxx

  PS No, I haven't seen Robert De Niro again but, yes, if I do I will definitely tell him that you liked him very much in The Mission.

  PPS No, I honestly haven't spent any time in Angola and I'm not in urgent need of a cash transfer. Don't answer those ones.

  I'm no expert on depression. I hadn't even understood my own after Will died. But I found Agnes's moods especially hard to fathom. My mother's friends who suffered depression--and there seemed to be a dismaying number of them--seemed flattened by life, struggling through a fog that descended until they could see no joy, no prospect of pleasure. It obscured their way forward. You could see it in the way they walked around town, their shoulders bowed, their mouths set in thin lines of forbearance. It was as if sadness seeped from them.

  Agnes was different. She was boisterous and garrulous one minute, then weepy and furious the next. I'd been told that she felt isolated, judged, without allies. But that never quite fit. Because the more time I spent with her, the more I noticed she was not really cowed by those women: she was infuriated by them. She would rage about the unfairness, scream at Mr. Gopnik; she would imitate them cruelly behind his back, and mutter furiously about the first Mrs. Gopnik, or Ilaria and her scheming ways. She was mercurial, a human flame of outrage, growling about cipa or debil or dziwka. (I would Google these in my time off until my ears went pink.)