Still Me

  I dared not look at Agnes now, as the applause broke out again.

  "Mary," Kathryn Gopnik said, when it had died down, "you have helped perpetuate the true values of this place--values that some may find old-fashioned but which we feel makes this country club what it is: consistency, excellence, and loyalty. You have been its smiling face, its beating heart. I know I speak for everyone when I say it simply won't be the same without you." The older woman was now beaming, her eyes glittering with tears. "Everyone, charge your glasses and raise them to our wonderful Mary."

  The room erupted. Those who were able to stand stood. As Emmett clambered unsteadily to his feet, I glanced around, and then, feeling somehow treacherous, I did too. Agnes was the last to rise from her chair, still clapping, her smile a glossy rictus on her face.

  --

  There was something comforting about a truly heaving bar, one where you had to thrust your arm through a queue three deep to get the attention of a bartender, and where you'd be lucky if two-thirds of your drink remained in the glass by the time you'd fought your way back to your table. Balthazar, Nathan told me, was something of a SoHo institution: always jammed, always fun, a staple of the New York bar scene. And tonight, even on a Sunday, it was packed, busy enough for the noise, the ever-moving barmen, the lights and the clatter to drive the day's events from my head.

  We sank a couple of beers each, standing at the bar, and Nathan introduced me to the guys he knew from his gym, whose names I forgot almost immediately but who were funny and nice and just needed one woman as an excuse to bounce cheerful insults off each other. Eventually we fought our way to a table where I drank some more and ate a cheeseburger and felt a bit better. At around ten o'clock, when the boys were busy doing grunting impressions of other gym-goers, complete with facial expressions and bulging veins, I got up to go to the bathroom. I stayed there for ten minutes, relishing the relative silence as I touched up my makeup and ruffled my hair. I tried not to think about what Sam was doing. It had stopped being a comfort to me, and had instead started to give me a knot in my stomach. Then I headed back out.

  "Are you stalking me?"

  I spun round in the corridor. There stood Joshua Ryan in a shirt and jeans, his eyebrows raised.

  "What? Oh. Hi!" My hand went instinctively to my hair. "No--no, I'm just here with some friends."

  "I'm kidding you. How are you, Louisa Clark? Long way from Central Park." He stooped to kiss my cheek. He smelled delicious, of limes and something soft and musky. "Wow. That was almost poetic."

  "Just working my way through all the bars in Manhattan. You know how it is."

  "Oh, yeah. The 'try something new' thing. You look cute. I like the whole"--he gestured toward my shift dress and short-sleeved cardigan--"preppy vibe."

  "I had to go to a country club today."

  "It's a good look on you. Want to grab a beer?"

  "I--I can't really leave my friends." He looked momentarily disappointed. "But, hey," I added, "come and join us!"

  "Great! Let me just tell the people I'm with. I'm tagging along on a date--they'll be glad to shake me. Where are you?"

  I fought my way back to Nathan, my face skin suddenly flushed and a faint buzzing in my ears. It didn't matter how wrong his accent, how different his eyebrows, the slant at the edge of his eyes that went the wrong way, it was impossible to look at Josh and not see Will there. I wondered if it would ever stop jolting me. I wondered at my unconscious internal use of the word "ever."

  "I bumped into a friend!" I said, just as Josh appeared.

  "A friend," said Nathan.

  "Nathan, Dean, Arun, this is Josh Ryan."

  "You forgot 'the Third.'" He grinned at me, like we'd exchanged a private joke. "Hey." Josh held out a hand, leaned forward, and shook Nathan's. I saw Nathan's eyes travel over him and flicker toward me. I raised a bright, neutral smile, as if I had loads of good-looking male friends dotted all over Manhattan who might just want to come and join us in bars.

  "Can I buy anyone a beer?" said Josh. "They do great food here too if anyone's interested."

  "A 'friend'?" murmured Nathan, as Josh stepped up to the bar.

  "Yes. A friend. I met him at the Yellow Ball. With Agnes."

  "He looks like--"

  "I know."

  Nathan considered this. He looked at me, then at Josh. "That whole 'saying yes' thing of yours. You haven't . . ."

  "I love Sam, Nathan."

  "Sure you do, mate. I'm just saying."

  I felt Nathan's scrutiny during the rest of the evening. Josh and I somehow ended up on the edge of the table away from everyone else, where he talked about his job and the insane mixture of opiates and antidepressants his work colleagues shoveled into themselves every day just to cope with the demands of the office, and how hard he was trying not to offend his easily offended boss, and how he kept failing, and the apartment he never had time to decorate and what had happened when his clean-freak mother visited from Boston. I nodded and smiled and listened and tried to make sure that when I found myself watching his face it was in an appropriate, interested way rather than a slightly obsessive, wistful oh-but-you're-so-like-him way.

  "And how about you, Louisa Clark? You've said almost nothing about yourself all evening. How's the holiday going? When do you have to head back?"

  The job. I realized with a lurch that the last time we had met I had lied about who I was. And also that I was too drunk to maintain any kind of lie, or to feel as ashamed as I probably should about confessing. "Josh, I have to tell you something."

  He leaned forward. "Ah. You're married."

  "Nope."

  "Well, that's something. You have an incurable disease? Weeks left to live?"

  I shook my head.

  "You're bored? You're bored. You'd really rather talk to someone else now? I get it. I've barely drawn breath."

  I started to laugh. "No. Not that. You're great company." I looked down at my feet. "I'm . . . not who I told you I was. I'm not Agnes's friend from England. I just said that because she needed an ally at the Yellow Ball. I'm, well, I'm her assistant. I'm just an assistant."

  When I looked up he was gazing at me.

  "And?"

  I stared at him. His eyes had tiny flecks of gold in them.

  "Louisa. This is New York. Everyone talks themselves up. Every bank teller is a junior vice president. Every bartender has a production company. I guessed you had to work for Agnes because of the way you were running around after her. No friend would do that. Unless they were, like, really stupid. Which you plainly are not."

  "And you don't mind?"

  "Hey. I'm just glad you're not married. Unless you are married. That bit wasn't a lie too, was it?"

  He had taken hold of one of my hands. I felt my breath give slightly in my chest, and I had to swallow before I spoke. "No. But I do have a boyfriend."

  He kept his eyes on mine, perhaps searching to see whether there was some punch line coming, then released my hand reluctantly. "Ah. Well, that's a pity." He leaned back in his chair, and took a sip of his drink. "So how come he isn't here?"

  "Because he's in England."

  "And he's coming over?"

  "No."

  He pulled a face, the kind of face people make when they think you're doing something stupid but don't want to say so out loud. He shrugged. "Then we can be friends. You know everyone dates here, right? Doesn't have to be a thing. I'll be your incredibly handsome male walker."

  "Do you mean dating as in 'having sex with'?"

  "Whoa. You English girls don't mince your words."

  "I just don't want to lead you down the garden path."

  "You're telling me this isn't going to be a friends-with-benefits thing. Okay, Louisa Clark. I get it."

  I tried not to smile. And failed.

  "You're very cute," he said. "And you're funny. And direct. And not like any girl I've ever met."

  "And you're very charming."

  "That's because I'm a little bit enra
ptured."

  "And I'm a little bit drunk."

  "Oh, now I'm wounded. Really wounded." He clutched at his heart.

  It was at this point that I turned my head and saw Nathan watching. He gave a faint lift to his eyebrow, then tapped his wrist. It was enough to bring me back to earth. "You know--I really have to go. Early start."

  "I've gone too far. I've frightened you off."

  "Oh, I'm not that easily frightened. But I do have a tricky day at work tomorrow. And my morning run doesn't work so well on several pints of beer and a tequila chaser."

  "Will you call me? For a platonic beer? So I can moon at you a little?"

  "I have to warn you, 'mooning' means something quite different in England," I told him, and he exploded with laughter.

  "Well, I promise not to do that. Unless, of course, you want me to."

  "That's quite the offer."

  "I mean it. Call me."

  I walked out, feeling his eyes on my back the whole way. As Nathan hailed a yellow taxi, I turned as the door was closing. I could only just make him out through a tiny gap as it swung shut, but it was enough to see he was still watching me. And smiling.

  --

  I called Sam. "Hey," I said, when he picked up.

  "Lou? Why am I even asking? Who else would ring me at four forty-five in the morning?"

  "So what are you doing?" I lay back on my bed and let my shoes drop from my feet onto the carpeted floor.

  "Just back off a shift. Reading. How are you? You sound cheerful."

  "Been to a bar. Tough day. But I feel a lot better now. And I just wanted to hear your voice. Because I miss you. And you're my boyfriend."

  "And you're drunk." He laughed.

  "I might be. A little. Did you say you were reading?"

  "Yup. A novel."

  "Really? I thought you didn't read fiction."

  "Oh, Katie got it for me. Insisted I'd enjoy it. I can't face the endless inquisitions if I keep not reading it."

  "She's buying you books?" I pushed myself upright, my good mood suddenly dissipating.

  "Why? What does buying me a book mean?" He sounded half amused.

  "It means she fancies you."

  "It does not."

  "It totally does." Alcohol had loosened my inhibitions. I felt the words coming before I could stop them. "If women try to make you read something it's because they fancy you. They want to be in your head. They want to make you think of stuff."

  I heard him chuckle. "And what if it's a motorcycle repair manual?"

  "Still counts. Because then she'd be trying to show you what a cool, sexy, motorbike-loving kind of chick she is."

  "Well, this isn't about motorbikes. It's some French thing."

  "French? This is bad. What's the title?"

  "Madame de."

  "Madame de what?"

  "Just Madame de. It's about a general and some earrings and . . ."

  "And what?"

  "He has an affair."

  "She's making you read books about French people who have affairs? Oh, my God. She totally fancies you."

  "You're wrong, Lou."

  "I know when someone fancies someone, Sam."

  "Really." He had begun to sound tired.

  "So, a man made a pass at me tonight. I knew he fancied me. So I told him straight off I was with someone. I headed it off."

  "Oh, you did? Who was that, then?"

  "His name is Josh."

  "Josh. Would that be the same Josh who called you when I was leaving?"

  Even through my slightly drunken fug I had begun to realize this conversation was a bad idea. "Yes."

  "And you just happened to bump into him in a bar."

  "I did! I was there with Nathan. And I literally ran into him outside the Ladies."

  "So what did he say?" His voice now held a faint edge.

  "He . . . he said it was a pity."

  "And is it?"

  "What?"

  "A pity?"

  There was a short silence. I felt suddenly, horribly sober. "I'm just telling you what he said. I'm with you, Sam. I'm literally just using this as an example of how I could tell that someone fancied me and how I headed it off before he could get the wrong idea. Which is a concept you seem to be unwilling to grasp."

  "No. Seems to me you're calling me up in the middle of the night to have a go at me about my work partner who has lent me a book, but you're fine with you going out and having drunk conversations with this Josh about relationships. Jesus. You wouldn't even admit we were in a relationship until I pushed you into it. And now you'll happily talk about intimate stuff to some guy you just met in a bar. If you really just met him in a bar."

  "It just took me time, Sam! I thought you were playing around!"

  "It took you time because you were still in love with the memory of another guy. A dead guy. And you're now in New York because, well, he wanted you to go there. So I have no idea why you're being weird and jealous about Katie. You never minded how much time I spent with Donna."

  "Because Donna didn't fancy you."

  "You've never even met Katie! How could you possibly know whether she fancies me or not?"

  "I've seen the pictures!"

  "What pictures?" he exploded.

  I was an idiot. I closed my eyes. "On her Facebook page. She has pictures. Of you and her." I swallowed. "A picture."

  There was a long silence. The kind of silence that says, Are you serious? The kind of ominous silence that comes while somebody quietly adjusts his view of who you are. When Sam spoke again his voice was low and controlled. "This is a ridiculous discussion and I've got to get some sleep."

  "Sam, I--"

  "Go to sleep, Lou. We'll speak later." He rang off.

  12

  I barely slept, all the things I wished I had and hadn't said whirring around my head in an endless carousel, and woke groggily to the sound of knocking. I stumbled out of bed, and opened my door to find Mrs. De Witt standing there in her dressing-gown. She looked tiny and frail without her makeup and set hair, and her face was twisted with anxiety.

  "Oh, you're there," she said, like I would have been anywhere else. "Come. Come. I need your help."

  "Wh-what? Who let you in?"

  "The big one. The Australian. Come on. No time to waste."

  I rubbed my eyes, struggling to come to.

  "He's helped me before but said he couldn't leave Mr. Gopnik. Oh, what does it matter? I opened my door this morning to put my trash out and Dean Martin ran out and he's somewhere in the building. I have no idea where. I can't find him by myself." Her voice was quavering yet imperious, and her hands fluttered around her head. "Hurry. Hurry now. I'm afraid somebody will open the doors downstairs and he'll get out onto the sidewalk." She wrung her hands together. "He's not good by himself outdoors. And someone might steal him. He's a pedigree, you know."

  I grabbed my key and followed her out into the hall, still in my T-shirt.

  "Where have you looked?"

  "Well, nowhere, dear. I'm not good at walking. That's why I need you to do it. I'm going to go and get my stick." She looked at me as if I had said something particularly stupid. I sighed, trying to imagine what I would do if I were a small, wonky-eyed pug with an unexpected taste of freedom.

  "He's all I have. You have to find him." She started to cough, as if her lungs couldn't cope with the tension.

  "I'll try the main lobby first."

  I ran downstairs, on the basis that Dean Martin was unlikely to be able to call the lift, and scanned the corridor for a small, angry canine. Empty. I checked my watch, noting with mild dismay that this was because it was not yet six a.m. I peered behind and under Ashok's desk, then ran to his office, which was locked. I called Dean Martin's name softly the whole time, feeling faintly stupid as I did so. No sign. I ran back up the stairs and did the same thing on our floors, checking the kitchen and back corridors. Nothing. I did the same on the fourth floor, before rationalizing that if I was now out of breath, the chance
s of a small fat pug being able to run up that many flights of stairs at speed was pretty unlikely. And then outside I heard the familiar whine of the garbage truck. And I thought about our old dog, who had a spectacular ability to tolerate--and even enjoy--the most disgusting smells known to humanity.

  I headed to the service entrance. There, entranced, stood Dean Martin, drooling, as the garbage men wheeled the huge, stinking bins backward and forward from our building to their truck. I approached him slowly, but the noise was so great and his attention so locked on the rubbish that he didn't hear me until the exact moment I reached down and grabbed him.

  Have you ever held a raging pug? I haven't felt anything squirm that hard since I had to pin a two-year-old Thom down on a sofa while my sister extricated a rogue marble from his left nostril. As I wrestled Dean Martin under my arm, the dog threw himself left and right, his eyes bulging with fury, his outraged yapping filling the silent building. I had to wrap my arms around him, my head at an angle to stop his snapping jaw reaching me. From upstairs I heard Mrs. De Witt calling down: "Dean Martin? Is that him?"

  It took everything I had to hold him. I ran up the last flight of stairs, desperate to hand him over.

  "Got him!" I gasped. Mrs. De Witt stepped forward, her arms outstretched. She had a lead ready and she reached out and snapped it onto his collar, just as I lowered him to the ground. At which point, with a speed wholly incommensurate with his size and shape, he whipped round and sank his teeth into my left hand.

  If there had been anyone left in the building who hadn't already been woken by the barking, my scream would probably have done it. It was at least loud enough to shock Dean Martin into letting go. I bent double over my hand and swore, the blood already blistering on the wound. "Your dog bit me! He bloody bit me!"

  Mrs. De Witt took a breath and stood a little straighter. "Well, of course he did, with you holding him that tightly. He was probably desperately uncomfortable!" She shooed the little dog inside, where he continued to growl at me, teeth bared. "There, see?" she said, gesturing toward him. "Your shouting and screaming frightened him. He's terribly agitated now. You have to learn about dogs if you're going to handle them correctly."

  I couldn't speak. My jaw had dropped, cartoon-style. It was at this moment that Mr. Gopnik, in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, threw open his front door.

  "What on earth is this racket?" he said, striding out into the corridor. I was startled by the ferocity of his voice. He took in the scene before him, me in my T-shirt and knickers, clutching my bleeding hand, and the old woman in her dressing-gown, the dog snapping at her feet. Behind Mr. Gopnik I could just make out Nathan in his uniform, a towel raised to his face. "What the hell is going on?"