Still Me, Page 4

  We were barely a mile in when I realized this was not a good idea. Even though I was now walking as much as running, my breath was already coming in gasps, my hip protesting all-too-recent injuries. The farthest I had run in years was fifteen yards for a slowing bus, and I'd missed that. I glanced up to see George and Agnes were talking while they jogged. I couldn't breathe, and they were holding an honest-to-God conversation.

  I thought about a friend of Dad's who had had a heart attack while jogging. Dad had always used it as a clear illustration of why sport was bad for you. Why had I not explained my injuries? Was I going to cough a lung out right here in the middle of the park?

  "You okay back there, Miss Louisa?" George turned so that he was jogging backward.

  "Fine!" I gave him a cheery thumbs-up.

  I had always wanted to see Central Park. But not this way. I wondered what would happen if I keeled over and died on my first day in the job. How would they get my body home? I swerved to avoid a woman with three identical meandering toddlers. Please, God, I willed the two people running effortlessly in front of me, silently. Just one of you fall over. Not to break a leg exactly, just a little sprain. One of those things that lasts twenty-four hours and requires lying on a sofa with your leg up watching daytime telly.

  They were pulling away from me now and there was nothing I could do. What kind of park had hills in it? Mr. Gopnik would be furious with me for not sticking with his wife. Agnes would realize I was a silly, dumpy Englishwoman, rather than an ally. They would hire someone slim and gorgeous with better running clothes.

  It was at this point that the old man jogged past me. He turned his head to glance at me, then consulted his fitness tracker and kept going, nimble on his toes, his headphones plugged into his ears. He must have been seventy-five years old.

  "Oh, come on." I watched him speed away from me. And then I caught sight of the horse and carriage. I pushed forward until I was level with the driver. "Hey! Hey! Any chance you could just trot up to where those people are running?"

  "What people?"

  I pointed to the tiny figures now in the far distance. He peered toward them, then shrugged. I climbed up on the carriage and ducked down behind him while he urged his horse forward with a light slap of the reins. Yet another New York experience that wasn't quite as planned, I thought, as I crouched behind him. We drew closer, and I tapped him to let me out. It could only have been about five hundred yards but at least it had got me closer to them. I made to jump down.

  "Forty bucks," said the driver.

  "What?"

  "Forty bucks."

  "We only went five hundred yards!"

  "That's what it costs, lady."

  They were still deep in conversation. I pulled two twenty-dollar notes from my back pocket and hurled them at him, then ducked behind the carriage and started to jog, just in time for George to turn around and spot me. I gave him another cheery thumbs-up as if I'd been there all along.

  --

  George finally took pity on me. He spotted me limping and jogged back while Agnes did stretches, her long legs extending like some double-jointed flamingo. "Miss Louisa! You okay there?"

  At least, I thought it was him. I could no longer see because of the sweat leaking into my eyes. I stopped, my hands resting on my knees, my chest heaving

  "You got a problem? You're looking a little flushed."

  "Bit . . . rusty," I gasped. "Hip . . . problem."

  "You got an injury? You should have said!"

  "Didn't want to . . . miss any of it!" I said, wiping my eyes with my hands. It just made them sting more.

  "Where is it?"

  "Left hip. Fracture. Eight months ago."

  He put his hands on my hip, then moved my left leg backward and forward so that he could feel it rotating. I tried not to wince.

  "You know, I don't think you should do any more today."

  "But I--"

  "No, you head on back, Miss Louisa."

  "Oh, if you insist. How disappointing."

  "We'll meet you at the apartment." He clapped me on the back so vigorously that I nearly fell onto my face. And then, with a cheery wave, they were gone.

  --

  "You have fun, Miss Louisa?" said Ashok, as I hobbled in forty-five minutes later. Turned out you could get lost in Central Park after all.

  I paused to pull my sweat-soaked T-shirt away from my back. "Marvelous. Loving it."

  When I got into the apartment I discovered that George and Agnes had returned home a full twenty minutes before me.

  --

  Mr. Gopnik had told me that Agnes's schedule was busy. Given his wife didn't have a job, or any offspring, she was in fact the busiest person I had ever met. We had a half-hour for breakfast after George left (there was a table laid for Agnes with an egg-white omelet, some berries and a silver pot of coffee; I bolted down a muffin that Nathan had left for me in the staff kitchen), then we had half an hour in Mr. Gopnik's study with Mr. Gopnik's assistant, Michael, penciling in the events Agnes would be attending that week.

  Mr. Gopnik's office was an exercise in studied masculinity: all dark paneled wood and loaded bookshelves. We sat in heavily upholstered chairs around a coffee table. Behind us, Mr. Gopnik's oversized desk held a series of phones and bound notepads and periodically Michael begged Ilaria for more of her delicious coffee and she complied, saving her smiles for him alone.

  We went over the likely contents of a meeting about the Gopniks' philanthropic foundation, a charity dinner on Wednesday, a memorial lunch and a cocktail reception on Thursday, an art exhibition and concert at the Metropolitan Opera at the Lincoln Center on Friday. "A quiet week, then," said Michael, peering at his iPad.

  Today Agnes's diary showed she had a hair appointment at ten (these occurred three times a week), a dental appointment (routine cleaning), lunch with a former colleague, and an appointment with an interior decorator. She had a piano lesson at four (these took place twice a week), a spin class at five thirty, and then she would be out to dinner alone with Mr. Gopnik at a restaurant in Midtown. I would finish at six thirty p.m.

  The prospect of the day seemed to satisfy Agnes. Or perhaps it was the run. She had changed into indigo jeans and a white shirt, the collar of which revealed a large diamond pendant, and moved in a discreet cloud of perfume. "All looks fine," she said. "Right. I have to make some calls." She seemed to expect that I would know where to find her afterward.

  "If in doubt, wait in the hall," whispered Michael as she left. He smiled, the professional veneer briefly gone. "When I started I never knew where to find them. Our job is to pop up when they think they need us. But not, you know, to stalk them all the way to the bathroom."

  He was probably not much older than I was, but he looked like one of those people who came out of the womb handsome, color-coordinated, and with perfectly polished shoes. I wondered if everyone in New York but me was like this. "How long have you worked here?"

  "Just over a year. They had to let go their old social secretary because . . ." He paused, seeming briefly uncomfortable. "Well, fresh start and all that. And then after a while they decided it didn't work having one assistant for two of them. That's where you come in. So hello!" He held out his hand.

  I shook it. "You like it here?"

  "I love it. I never know who I'm more in love with, him or her." He grinned. "He's just the smartest. And so handsome. And she's a doll."

  "Do you run with them?"

  "Run? Are you kidding me?" He shuddered. "I don't do sweating. Apart from with Nathan. Oh, my. I would sweat with him. Isn't he gorgeous? He offered to do my shoulder and I fell instantly in love. How on earth have you managed to work with him this long without jumping those delicious Antipodean bones?"

  "I--"

  "Don't tell me. If you've been there I don't want to know. We have to stay friends. Right. I need to get down to Wall Street."

  He gave me a credit card ("For emergencies--she forgets hers all the time. All statements go str
aight to him") and an electronic tablet, then showed me how to set up the PIN code. "All the contact numbers you need are here. And everything to do with the calendar is on here," he said, scrolling down the screen with a forefinger. "Each person is color-coded--you'll see Mr. Gopnik is blue, Mrs. Gopnik is red, and Tabitha is yellow. We don't run her diary anymore as she lives away from home but it's useful to know when she's likely to be here, and whether there are joint family commitments, like meetings of the trusts or the foundation. I've set you up a private e-mail, and if there are changes you and I will communicate them with each other to back up any changes made on the screen. You have to double-check everything. Schedule clashes are the only thing guaranteed to make him mad."

  "Okay."

  "So you'll go through her mail every morning, work out what she wants to attend. I'll cross-check with you, as sometimes there are things she says no to and he overrides her. So don't throw anything away. Just keep two piles."

  "How many invites are there?"

  "Oh, you have no idea. The Gopniks are basically top tier. That means they get invited to everything and go to almost none of it. Second tier, you wish you were invited to half and go to everything you're invited to."

  "Third tier?"

  "Crashers. Would go to the opening of a burrito truck. You get them even at society events." He sighed. "So embarrassing."

  I scanned the diary page, zooming in on this week, which to me appeared to be a terrifying rainbow mess of colors. I tried not to look as daunted as I felt.

  "What's brown?"

  "That's Felix's appointments. The cat."

  "The cat has his own social diary?"

  "It's just groomers, veterinary appointments, dental hygienists, that sort of thing. Ooh, no, he's got the behaviorist in this week. He must have been pooping on the Ziegler again."

  "And purple?"

  Michael lowered his voice. "The former Mrs. Gopnik. If you see a purple block next to an event, that's because she will also be present." He was about to say something else but his phone rang.

  "Yes, Mr. Gopnik . . . Yes. Of course . . . Yes, I will. Be right there." He put his phone back in his bag. "Okay. Gotta go. Welcome to the team!"

  "How many of us are there?" I said, but he was already running out of the door, his coat over his arm.

  "First Big Purple is two weeks' time. Okay? I'll e-mail you. And wear normal clothes when you're outside! Or you'll look like you work for Whole Foods."

  --

  The day passed in a blur. Twenty minutes later we walked out of the building and into a waiting car that took us to a glossy salon a few blocks away, me trying desperately to look like the kind of person who spent her whole life getting in and out of large black cars with cream leather interiors. I sat at the edge of the room while Agnes had her hair washed and styled by a woman whose own hair appeared to have been cut with the aid of a ruler, and an hour later the car took us to the dental appointment where, again, I sat in the waiting room. Everywhere we went was hushed and tasteful and a world away from the madness on the street below. I had worn one of my more sober outfits: a navy blouse with anchors on it and a striped pencil skirt, but I needn't have worried: at each place I became instantly invisible. It was as if I had "STAFF" tattooed on my forehead. I started to notice the other personal assistants, pacing outside on cell phones or racing back in with dry-cleaning and specialty coffees in cardboard holders. I wondered if I should be offering Agnes coffee, or officiously ticking things off lists. Most of the time I wasn't entirely sure why I was there. The whole thing seemed to run like clockwork without me. It was as if I was simply human armor--a portable barrier between Agnes and the rest of the world.

  Agnes, meanwhile, was distracted, talking in Polish on her cell phone or asking me to make notes on my tablet: "We need to check with Michael that Leonard's gray suit was cleaned. And maybe call Mrs. Levitsky about my Givenchy dress--I think I have lost a little weight since I last wear it. She maybe can take it in an inch." She peered into her oversized Prada handbag, pulling out a plastic strip of pills from which she popped two into her mouth. "Water?"

  I cast around, finding one in the door pocket. I unscrewed it and handed it to her. The car stopped.

  "Thank you."

  The driver--a middle-aged man with thick dark hair and jowls that wobbled as he moved--stepped out to open her door. When she disappeared into the restaurant, the doorman welcoming her like an old friend, I made to climb out behind her but the driver shut the door. I was left on the backseat.

  I sat there for a minute, wondering what I was meant to do.

  I checked my phone. I peered through the window, wondering if there were sandwich shops nearby. I tapped my foot. Finally I leaned forward through the front seats. "My dad used to leave me and my sister in the car when he went to the pub. He'd bring us out a Coke and a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch and that would be us sorted for three hours." I tapped my knee with my fingers. "You'd probably be done for child abuse now. Mind you, pickled onion Monster Munch was our absolute favorite. Best part of the week."

  The driver said nothing.

  I leaned forward a bit farther so that my face was inches from his.

  "So. How long does this usually take?"

  "As long as it takes." His eyes slid away from mine in the mirror.

  "And you wait here the whole time?"

  "That's my job."

  I sat for a moment, then put my hand through to the front seat. "I'm Louisa. Mrs. Gopnik's new assistant."

  "Nice to meet you."

  He didn't turn around. Those were the last words he said to me. He slid a CD into the music system. "Estoy perdido," said a Spanish woman's voice. "?Donde esta el bano?"

  "Ehs-TOY pehr-DEE-doh. DOHN-deh ehs-TA el BAH-neeo." The driver repeated.

  "?Cuanto cuesta?"

  "KooAN-to KWEHS-ta," came his reply.

  I spent the next hour sitting in the back of the car staring at the iPad, trying not to listen to the driver's linguistic exercises and wondering if I should also be doing something useful. I e-mailed Michael to ask but he simply responded: That's your lunch break, sweetie. Enjoy! xx

  I didn't like to tell him I had no food. In the warmth of the waiting car, tiredness began to creep over me again, like a tide. I laid my head against the window, telling myself it was normal to feel disjointed, out of my depth. You're going to feel uncomfortable in your new world for a bit. It always does feel strange to be knocked out of your comfort zone. Will's last letter echoed through me as if from a long distance.

  And then nothing.

  --

  I woke with a start as the door opened. Agnes was climbing in, her face white, her jaw set.

  "Everything okay?" I said, scrambling upright, but she didn't answer.

  We drove off in silence, the still air of the interior suddenly heavy with tension.

  She turned to me. I scrambled for a bottle of water and held it up to her.

  "Do you have cigarettes?"

  "Uh . . . no."

  "Garry, do you have cigarettes?"

  "No, ma'am. But we can get you some."

  Her hand was shaking, I noticed now. She reached into her bag, pulling out a small bottle of pills, and I handed over the water. She swigged some down and I noticed tears in her eyes. We pulled up outside a Duane Reade and, after a moment, I realized I was expected to get out. "What kind? I mean, what brand?"

  "Marlboro Lights," she said, and dabbed her eyes.

  I jumped out--well, more of a hobble, really, as my legs were seizing up from the morning's run--and bought a packet, thinking how odd it was to buy cigarettes from a pharmacy. When I got back into the car she was shouting at somebody in Polish on her cell phone. She ended the call, then opened the window and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. She offered one to me. I shook my head.

  "Don't tell Leonard," she said, and her face softened. "He hates me smoking."

  We sat there for a few minutes, the engine running, while she smoked the cigar
ette in short, angry bursts that made me fear for her lungs. Then she stubbed out the last inch, her lips curling over some internal fury, and waved for Garry to drive on.

  --

  I was left briefly to my own devices while Agnes had her piano lesson. I retreated to my room where I thought about lying down but was afraid that my stiff legs would mean I couldn't get up again so instead I sat at the little desk, wrote Sam a quick e-mail and checked the calendar for the next few days.

  As I did so, music began to echo through the apartment, first scales, then something melodic and beautiful. I stopped to listen, marveling at the sound, wondering how it must feel to be able to create something so gorgeous. I closed my eyes, letting it flow through me, remembering the evening when Will had taken me to my first concert and begun to force the world open for me. Live music was so much more three-dimensional than recorded--it short-circuited something deep within. Agnes's playing seemed to come from some part of her that remained closed in her dealings with the world; something vulnerable and sweet and lovely. He would have enjoyed this, I thought absently. He would have loved being here. At the exact point it swelled into something truly magical, Ilaria started up the vacuum-cleaner, swamping the sound with a roar, the unforgiving bump of machinery into heavy furniture. The music stopped.

  My phone buzzed.

  Please tell her to stop the vacum!

  I climbed off my bed and walked through the apartment until I found Ilaria, who was pushing the vacuum cleaner furiously just outside Agnes's study door, her head dipped as she wrenched it backward and forward. I swallowed. There was something about Ilaria that made you hesitate before confronting her, even though she was one of the few people in this zip code shorter than I was.

  "Ilaria," I said.

  She didn't stop.

  "Ilaria!" I stood in front of her until she was forced to notice. She kicked the off button with her heel and glared at me. "Mrs. Gopnik has asked if you would mind doing the vacuuming some other time. She can't hear her music lesson."

  "When does she think I am meant to clean the apartment?" Ilaria spat, loud enough to be heard through the door.

  "Um . . . maybe at any other point during the day apart from this particular forty minutes?"

  She pulled the plug from the socket and dragged the cleaner noisily across the room. She glared at me with such venom that I almost stepped backward. There was a brief silence and the music started up again.