Still Me

by Jojo Moyes

  I put my earphones in and sang my way drunkenly through some Beyonce songs that I knew would make me feel worse, but somehow I didn't care. I scrolled through my phone, looking at the few pictures I had of Sam and me together, trying to detect the strength of his feelings from the way he put his arm around me, or the way he bent his head toward mine. I stared at them and tried to recall what it was that had made me feel so sure, so secure in his arms. Then I picked up my laptop, clicked open an e-mail, and addressed it to him.

  Do you still miss me?

  And I pressed send, realizing, as it whooshed into the ether, that I had now condemned myself to unknown hours of e-mail-related anxiety while I waited for him to respond.

  13

  I woke feeling sick, and it wasn't the beer. It took fewer than ten seconds for the vague feeling of nausea to seep along a synapse and connect with the memory of what I had done the previous evening. I opened my laptop slowly and balled my fists into my eyes when I discovered that, yes, I had indeed sent it and, no, he hadn't responded. Even when I pressed "refresh" fourteen times.

  I lay in the fetal position for a bit, trying to make the knot in my stomach go away. And then I wondered about calling him and explaining lightly that Hah! I'd been a bit merry and homesick and I'd just wanted to hear his voice and you know, sorry . . . but he had told me he would be working all Saturday, which meant that right now he would be in the rig with Katie Ingram. And something in me balked at having that conversation with her in earshot.

  For the first time since I had come to work for the Gopniks, the weekend stretched out in front of me like an interminable journey over bleak terrain.

  So I did what every girl does when she's far from home and a little sad. I ate half a packet of chocolate Digestives and called my mother.

  "Lou! Is that you? Hold on, I'm in the middle of washing Granddad's smalls. Let me turn the hot water off." I heard my mother walking to the other side of the kitchen, the radio, humming distantly in the background, abruptly silenced, and I was instantly transported to our little house in Renfrew Road.

  "Hello! I'm back! Is everything all right?" She sounded breathless. I pictured her untying her apron. She always removed her apron for important calls.

  "Fine! I've barely had a minute to talk properly so I thought I'd give you a ring."

  "Is it not fearful expensive? I thought you only wanted to send e-mails. You're not going to be hit with one of those thousand-pound bills, are you? I saw a whole thing on the television about people getting caught out using their phones on holiday. You'd have to sell your house when you got home, just to get them off your back."

  "I checked the rates. It's good to hear your voice, Mum."

  Mum's delight at speaking to me made me feel a little ashamed for not having called before. She rattled on, telling me about how she planned to start the poetry night classes when Granddad was feeling better, and the Syrian refugees who had moved in at the end of the street--she was giving them English lessons. "Of course I can't understand a thing they're saying half the time but we draw pictures, you know? And Zeinah--that's the mother--she always cooks me a little something to say thank you. What she can do with flaky pastry you wouldn't believe. Really, they're awful nice, the bunch of them."

  She said that Dad had been told to lose weight by the new doctor; Granddad's hearing was going, and the television was on so loud that every time he turned it on she nearly did a little wee; and Dymphna from two doors down was having a baby and they could hear her retching morning, noon, and night. I sat in my bed and listened and felt oddly comforted that life continued, as normal, somewhere else in the world.

  "Have you spoken to your sister?"

  "Not for a couple of days, why?"

  She lowered her voice, as if Treena were in the room instead of forty miles away. "She has a man."

  "Oh, yeah, I know."

  "You know? What's he like? She won't tell us a thing. She's after going out with him two or three times a week now. She keeps humming and smiling when I talk about him. It's very odd."

  "Odd?"

  "To have your sister smiling so much. I've been quite unnerved. I mean, it's lovely and all, but she's not herself. Lou, I went down to London to spend the night with her and Thom so she could go out, and when she came back she was singing."

  "Woah."

  "I know. Almost in tune too. I told your dad and he accused me of being unromantic. Unromantic! I told him only someone who truly believed in romance could stay married after washing his undercrackers for thirty years."

  "Mum!"

  "Oh, Lord. I forgot. You wouldn't have had your breakfast yet. Well. Anyway. If you speak to her try and get some information out of her. How's your fella, by the way?"

  "Sam? Oh, he's . . . fine."

  "That's grand. He came to your flat a couple of times after you'd gone. I think he just wanted to feel close to you, bless him. Treena said he was awful sad. Kept looking for jobs to do around the place. Came up here for a roast dinner with us too. But he hasn't been by for a while now."

  "He's really busy, Mum."

  "I'm sure he is. That's a job and a half, isn't it? Right, well, I must let you go before this call bankrupts the both of us. Did I tell you I'm seeing Maria this week? The toilet attendant from that lovely hotel we went to back in August? I'm going to London to see Treena and Thom on Friday, and I'm going to pop in and have lunch with Maria first."

  "In the toilets?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. There's a two-for-one pasta deal at that Italian chain near Leicester Square. I can't remember the name. She's very fussy about where she goes--she says you should judge a restaurant kitchen by the cleanliness of the Ladies. This one has a very good maintenance schedule, apparently. Every hour on the hour. Is everything good with you? How's the glamorous life of Fifth Street?"

  "Avenue. Fifth Avenue, Mum. It's great. It's all . . . amazing."

  "Don't forget to send me some more pictures. I showed Mrs. Edwards that one of you at the Yellow Ball and she said you looked like a film star. Didn't say which one, but I know she meant well. I was telling Daddy we should come and visit you before you're too important to know us!"

  "Like that's going to happen."

  "We're awful proud, sweetheart. I can't believe I have a daughter in New York high society, riding in limousines and hobnobbing with the flash Harrys."

  I looked around my little room, with the 1980s wallpaper and the dead cockroach under the basin. "Yeah," I said. "I'm really lucky."

  --

  Trying not to think about the significance of Sam no longer stopping by my flat just to feel close to me, I got dressed. I drank a coffee and went downstairs. I would head back to the Vintage Clothes Emporium. I had the feeling Lydia wouldn't mind if I just hung out.

  I picked my clothes carefully--this time I wore a Chinese mandarin-style blouse in turquoise with black wool culottes and a pair of red ballet slippers. Just the act of creating a look that didn't involve a polo shirt and nylon slacks made me feel more like myself. I tied my hair into two plaits, joined at the back with a little red bow, then added the sunglasses Lydia had given me and some earrings in the shape of the Statue of Liberty that had been irresistible, despite coming from a stall of tourist tat.

  I heard the commotion as I headed down the stairs. I wondered briefly what Mrs. De Witt was up to now, but when I turned the corner I saw that the raised voice was coming from a young Asian woman, who appeared to be thrusting a small child at Ashok. "You said this was my day. You promised. I have to go on the march!"

  "I can't do it, baby. Vincent is off. They got nobody to mind the lobby."

  "Then your kids can sit here while you do it. I'm going on this march, Ashok. They need me."

  "I can't mind the kids here!"

  "The library is going to close, baby. You understand that? You know that is the one place with air-conditioning I can go in the summer! And it is the one place I can feel sane. You tell me where else in the Heights I'm supposed to tak
e these kids when I'm alone eighteen hours a day."

  Ashok looked up as I stood there. "Oh, hi, Miss Louisa."

  The woman turned. I'm not sure what I had expected of Ashok's wife, but it was not this fierce-looking woman in jeans and a bandanna, her curly hair tumbling down her back.

  "Morning."

  "Good morning." She turned away. "I'm not discussing this any further, baby. You told me Saturday was mine. I am going on the march to protect a valuable public resource. That is it."

  "There's another march next week."

  "We have to keep up the pressure! This is the time when the city councilors decide funding! If we're not out there now, the local news doesn't report it, and then they think nobody cares. You know how PR works, baby? You know how the world works?"

  "I will lose my job if my boss comes down here and sees three kids. Yes, I love you, Nadia. I do love you. Don't cry, sweetheart." He turned to the toddler in his arms and kissed her wet cheek. "Daddy just has to do his job today."

  "I'm going now, baby. I'll be back early afternoon."

  "Don't you go. Don't you dare--hey!"

  She walked away, her palm up, as if to ward off further protest, and swung out of the building, stooping to pick up a placard she'd left by the door. As if perfectly choreographed, all three small children began to cry. Ashok swore softly. "What the Sam Hill am I supposed to do now?"

  "I'll do it." I'd said it before I knew what I was doing.

  "What?"

  "Nobody's in. I'll take them upstairs."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Ilaria goes to see her sister on Saturdays. Mr. Gopnik's at his club. I'll park them in front of the television. How hard can it be?"

  He looked at me. "You don't have children, do you, Miss Louisa?" And then he recovered himself. "But, man, that would be a lifesaver. If Mr. Ovitz stops by and sees me with these three I'll be fired before you can say, uh . . ." He thought for a moment.

  "You're fired?"

  "Exactly. Okay. Lemme come up with you and I'll explain who is who and who likes what. Hey, kids, you're gonna have an adventure upstairs with Miss Louisa! How cool is that?" Three children stared at me with wet, snotty faces. I smiled brightly at them. And, in tandem, all three began to cry again.

  --

  If you ever find yourself in a melancholy state of mind, removed from your family and a little unsure about the person you love, I can highly recommend being left in temporary charge of three small strangers, at least two of whom are still unable to go to the lavatory unaided. The phrase "living in the moment" only really made sense to me once I'd found myself chasing a crawling baby, whose obscenely filled nappy hung half off, across a priceless Aubusson rug, while simultaneously trying to stop a four-year-old chasing a traumatized cat. The middle child, Abhik, could be pacified with biscuits, and I parked him in front of cartoons in the TV room shoveling crumbs with fat hands into his dribbling mouth while I tried to shepherd the other two into at least the same twenty-square-foot radius. They were funny and sweet and mercurial and exhausting, squawking and running and colliding repeatedly with furniture. Vases wobbled; books were hauled from shelves and hastily shoved back. Noise--and various unsavory scents--filled the air. At one point I sat on the floor clutching two around their waists while Rachana, the eldest, poked me in the eye with sticky fingers and laughed. I laughed too. It was kind of funny, in a thank God this will be over soon kind of way.

  After two hours, Ashok came up and told me his wife was caught up in her protest and could I do another hour? I said yes. He wore the wide-eyed look of the truly desperate and, after all, I had nothing else to do. I did, however, take the precaution of moving them into my room, where I put on some cartoons, tried to keep them from opening the door, and accepted, with some distant part of me, that the air in this part of the building might never smell the same again. I was just trying to stop Abhik from putting cockroach spray into his mouth when there was a knock on my door.

  "Hold on, Ashok!" I yelled, trying to wrestle the canister off the child before his father saw.

  But it was Ilaria's face that appeared round my door. She stared at me, then at the children, then back at me. Abhik briefly stopped crying, gazing at her with huge brown eyes.

  "Um. Hi, Ilaria!"

  She said nothing.

  "I'm--I'm just helping Ashok out for a couple of hours. I know it's not ideal but, um, please don't say anything. They'll only be here a tiny bit longer."

  She eyed the scene a moment longer, then sniffed the air.

  "I'll fumigate the room afterward. Please don't tell Mr. Gopnik. I promise it won't happen again. I know I should have asked first but there was nobody here and Ashok was desperate." As I spoke, Rachana ran wailing toward the older woman and hurled herself like a rugby ball at her stomach. I winced, as Ilaria staggered backward. "They'll be gone any minute. I can call Ashok right now. Really. Nobody has to know . . ."

  But Ilaria simply adjusted her blouse, then scooped the little girl up in one arm. "You are thirsty, companera?" Without a backward glance, she shuffled off, Rachana huddled against her huge chest, her little thumb plugged into her mouth.

  As I sat there, Ilaria's voice echoed down the corridor. "Bring them to the kitchen."

  --

  Ilaria fried a batch of banana fritters, handing the children small pieces of banana to keep them occupied while she cooked, and I refilled cups of water and tried to stop the smaller children toppling off the kitchen chairs. She didn't talk to me, but kept up a low croon, her face filled with unexpected sweetness, her voice low and musical as she chatted to them. The children, like dogs responding to an efficient trainer, were immediately quiet and biddable, holding out dimpled hands for another piece of banana, remembering their pleases and thank-yous, according to Ilaria's instructions. They ate and ate, growing smiley and placid, the baby rubbing balled fists into her eyes as if she were ready for bed.

  "Hungry," Ilaria said, nodding toward the empty plates.

  I tried to recall whether Ashok had told me about food in the baby's rucksack but I had been too distracted to look. I was just grateful to have a grown-up in the room. "You're brilliant with kids," I said, chewing a piece of fritter.

  She shrugged. But she looked quietly gratified. "You should change the little one. We can make a bed for her in your bottom drawer."

  I stared at her.

  "Because she will fall out of your bed?" She rolled her eyes, as if this should have been obvious.

  "Oh. Sure."

  I took Nadia back to my room and changed her, wincing. I drew the curtains. And then I pulled out my bottom drawer, arranged my jumpers so that they lined it, and laid Nadia down inside them, waiting for her to go to sleep. She fought it at first, her big eyes staring at me, her chubby hands reaching up for mine, but I could tell it was a battle she would lose. I tried to copy Ilaria and softly sang a lullaby. Well, it wasn't strictly speaking a lullaby: the only thing I could remember the words to was "The Molahonkey Song," which just made her chuckle, and another about Hitler having only one testicle that Dad had sung when I was small. But the baby seemed to like it. Her eyes began to close.

  I heard Ashok's footsteps in the hall, and the door open behind me.

  "Don't come in," I whispered. "She's nearly there . . . Himmler had something similar . . ."

  Ashok stayed where he was.

  "But poor old Goebbels had no balls at all."

  And just like that she was asleep. I waited a moment, placed my turquoise cashmere round-neck over her to keep her from getting chilly, and then I climbed to my feet.

  "You can leave her in here, if you like," I whispered. "Ilaria's in the kitchen with the other two. I think she's--"

  I turned and let out a yelp. Sam stood in my doorway, his arms folded and a half smile on his face. A carryall sat on the floor between his feet. I blinked at him, wondering if I was hallucinating. And then my hands rose slowly to my face.

  "Surprise!" he mouthed silently, and I stumbled
across the room and pushed him out into the hall where I could kiss him.

  --

  He had planned it the night I had told him about my unexpected free weekend, he told me. Jake had been no problem--there was no shortage of friends happy to take a free concert ticket--and he had reorganized his work, begging favors and swapping shifts. Then he had booked a last-minute cheap flight and come to surprise me.

  "You're lucky I didn't decide to do the same to you."

  "The thought did cross my mind, at thirty thousand feet. I had this sudden vision of you flying in the opposite direction."

  "How long have we got?"

  "Only forty-eight hours, I'm afraid. I have to leave early Monday morning. But, Lou, I just--I didn't want to wait another few weeks."

  He didn't say any more but I knew what he meant. "I'm so happy you did. Thank you. Thank you. So who let you in?"

  "Your man at Reception. He warned me about the kids. Then asked me whether I'd recovered from my food poisoning." He raised an eyebrow.

  "Yeah. There are no secrets in this building."

  "He also told me that you were a doll and the nicest person here. Which I knew already, of course. And then some little old lady with a yappy dog came along the corridor and started yelling at him about refuse collection so I left him to it."

  We drank coffee until Ashok's wife arrived and took the children back. Her name was Meena and, glowing with the residual energy of her community march, she thanked me wholeheartedly and told us about the library in Washington Heights they were trying to save. Ilaria didn't seem to want to hand Abhik back to her: she was busy chuckling to him, gently pinching his cheeks and making him laugh. The whole time we stood there with the two women, chatting, I felt Sam's hand on the small of my back, his huge frame filling our kitchen, his free hand around one of our coffee cups, and I felt suddenly as if this place were a few degrees more my home because I would now be able to picture him in it.

  "Very pleased to meet you," he had said to Ilaria, holding out his hand, and instead of her normal look of blank suspicion, she had smiled, a small smile, and shaken it. I realized how few people took the trouble to introduce themselves to her. She and I were invisibles, most of the time, and Ilaria--perhaps by virtue of her age or nationality--even more so than me.