by Jojo Moyes
Tabitha made up the numbers, arriving late and bringing with her the air of someone who has spent their cab ride in deep telephone discussion about how much they did not want to be there. Moments after she got there we were seated to eat in the dining room--which was off the main living room and dominated by a huge oval mahogany dining table.
It is fair to say the conversation was stilted. Mr. Gopnik and his brother fell immediately into conversation about the legal restrictions in the country where he was currently doing business, and the two wives asked each other a few stiff questions, like people practicing small talk in a foreign language.
"How have you been, Agnes?"
"Fine, thank you. And you, Veronica?"
"Very well. You look very well. That's a very nice dress."
"Thank you. You also look very nice."
"Did I hear that you had been to Poland? I'm sure Leonard said you were visiting your mother."
"I was there two weeks ago. It was lovely to see her, thank you."
I sat between Tabitha and Agnes, watching Agnes drink too much white wine and Tabitha flick mutinously through her phone and occasionally roll her eyes. I sipped at the pumpkin and sage soup, nodded, smiled, and tried not to think longingly of Ashok's apartment and the joyful chaos there. I would have asked Tabitha about her week--anything to move the stuttering conversation along--but she had made so many acid asides about the horror of having "staff" at family events that I didn't have the nerve.
Ilaria brought out dish after dish. "The Polish puta does not cook. So somebody has to give up their Thanksgiving," she muttered afterward. She had laid on a feast of turkey, roast potatoes, and a bunch of things I had never seen served as an accompaniment but suspected were about to leave me with instantaneous Type 2 diabetes--candied sweet potato casserole with marshmallow topping, green beans with honey and bacon, roasted acorn squash with maple-bacon drizzle, buttery cornbread, and carrots roasted with honey and spice. There were also popovers--a kind of Yorkshire pudding--and I peered at them surreptitiously to see if they were draped with syrup, too.
Of course only the men ate much of it. Tabitha pushed hers around her plate. Agnes ate some turkey and almost nothing else. I had a little of everything, grateful for something to do and also that Ilaria no longer slammed dishes down in front of me. In fact, she looked at me sideways a few times as if to express silent sympathy for my predicament. The men kept talking business, unaware of or unwilling to acknowledge the permafrost at the other end of the table.
Occasionally the silence was broken by the elderly Mrs. Gopnik demanding somebody help her to some potato or asking loudly, for the fourth time, what on earth the woman had done to the carrots. Several people would answer her at once, as if relieved to have a focus, no matter how irrational.
"That's an unusual dress, Louisa," said Veronica, after a particularly long silence. "Very striking. Did you buy it in Manhattan? One doesn't often see fur sleeves these days."
"Thank you. I bought it in the East Village."
"Is it Marc Jacobs?"
"Um, no. It's vintage."
"Vintage," snorted Tabitha.
"What did she say?" said Mrs. Gopnik loudly.
"She's talking about the girl's dress, Mother," said Mr. Gopnik's brother. "She says it's vintage."
"Vintage what?"
"What is problem with 'vintage,' Tab?" said Agnes coolly.
I shrank backward into my seat.
"It's such a meaningless term, isn't it? It's just a way of saying 'secondhand.' A way of dressing something up to pretend it's something it's not."
I wanted to tell her that vintage meant a whole lot more than that, but I didn't know how to express it--and suspected I wasn't meant to. I just wanted the whole conversation to move forward and away from me.
"I believe vintage outfits can be quite the fashion now," said Veronica, addressing me directly with a diplomat's skill. "Of course, I'm far too old to understand the young people's trends these days."
"And far too polite to say such things," muttered Agnes.
"I'm sorry?" said Tabitha.
"Oh, now you are sorry?"
"I meant, what did you just say?"
Mr. Gopnik looked up from his plate. His eyes darted warily from his wife to his daughter.
"I mean why you have to be so rude to Louisa. She is my guest here, even if she is staff. And you have to be rude about her outfit."
"I wasn't being rude. I was simply stating a fact."
"This is how being rude is these days. I tell it like I see it. I'm just being honest. The language of the bully. We all know how this is."
"What did you just call me?"
"Agnes. Darling." Mr. Gopnik reached across and placed his hand over hers.
"What are they saying?" said Mrs. Gopnik. "Tell them to speak up."
"I said Tab is being very rude to my friend."
"She's not your friend, for crying out loud. She's your paid assistant. Although I suspect that's all you can get in the way of friends, these days."
"Tab!" her father said. "That's a horrible thing to say."
"Well, it's true. Nobody wants anything to do with her. You can't pretend you don't see it wherever we go. You know this family is a laughingstock, Daddy? You have become a cliche. She is a walking cliche. And for what? We all know what her plan is."
Agnes removed her napkin from her lap and screwed it into a ball. "My plan? You want to tell me what my plan is?"
"Like every other sharp-elbowed immigrant on the make. You've somehow managed to convince Dad to marry you. Now you're no doubt doing everything possible to get pregnant and pop out a baby or two, then within five years you'll divorce him. And you're made for life. Boom! No more massages. Just Bergdorf Goodman, a driver, and lunch with your Polish coven all the way."
Mr. Gopnik leaned forward over the table. "Tabitha, I don't want you ever using the word 'immigrant' in a derogatory manner in this house again. Your great-grandparents were immigrants. You are the descendant of immigrants--"
"Not that kind of immigrant."
"What does this mean?" said Agnes, her cheeks flushed.
"Do I have to spell it out? There are those who achieve their goals through hard work and there are those who do it by lying on their--"
"Like you?" yelled Agnes. "Like you who lives off trust-fund allowance at age of twenty-five? You who have barely held a job in your life? I am meant to take example from you? At least I know what hard work is--"
"Yes. Straddling strange men's naked bodies. Quite the employment."
"That's enough!" Mr. Gopnik was on his feet. "You are quite, quite wrong, Tabitha, and you must apologize."
"Why? Because I can see her without rose-colored spectacles? Daddy, I'm sorry to say this but you are totally blind to what this woman really is."
"No. You are the one who is wrong!"
"So she's never going to want children? She's twenty-eight years old, Dad. Wake up!"
"What are they talking about?" said old Mrs. Gopnik, querulously, to her daughter-in-law. Veronica whispered something in her ear. "But she said something about naked men. I heard her."
"Not that it's any of your business, Tabitha, but there will be no more children in this house. Agnes and I agreed this point before I married her."
Tabitha pulled a face. "Oooh. She agreed. Like that means anything at all. A woman like her would say anything to marry you! Daddy, I hate to say it but you are being hopelessly naive. In a year or so there will be some little 'accident' and she'll persuade--"
"There will be no accidents!" Mr. Gopnik slammed his hand on the table so hard the glassware rattled.
"How can you know?"
"Because I had a goddamn vasectomy!" Mr. Gopnik sat down. His hands were shaking. "Two months before we got married. At Mount Sinai. With Agnes's full agreement. Are you satisfied now?"
The room fell silent. Tabitha gaped at her father.
The old woman looked from left to right, and then said, peering at M
r. Gopnik, "Leonard had an appendectomy?"
A low hum had started somewhere in the back of my head. As if in the distance I heard Mr. Gopnik insisting that his daughter apologize, then watched her push back her chair and leave the table without doing so. I saw Veronica exchange looks with her husband and take a long, weary swig of her drink.
And then I looked at Agnes, who was staring mutely at her plate on which her food was congealing in honeyed, bacon-strewn portions. As Mr. Gopnik reached out a hand and squeezed hers, my heart thumped loudly in my ears.
She didn't look at me.
17
I flew home on December 22, laden with presents and wearing my new vintage zebra-print coat, which, I would later discover, was strangely and adversely affected by the circulation of recycled air in the 767 and smelled, by the time I reached Heathrow, like a deceased equid.
I had actually not been due to fly until Christmas Eve but Agnes had insisted I go sooner as she was making an unheralded short stop back to Poland to see her mother, who was unwell, and there was apparently no point in my staying there to do nothing when I could be with my family. Mr. Gopnik had paid for the change to my ticket. Agnes had been both overly nice and distant with me since the Thanksgiving dinner. In turn, I was professional and amenable. Sometimes my head would spin with the information it held. But I would think of Garry's words way back in the autumn when I'd arrived:
See nothing, hear nothing, forget everything.
Something had happened in the run-up to Christmas, some lightening of my mood. Perhaps I was just relieved to be leaving that house of dysfunction. Or perhaps the act of buying Christmas presents had resurrected some buried sense of fun in my relationship with Sam. When had I last had a man to buy Christmas presents for, after all? For the last two years of our relationship Patrick had simply sent me e-mails with links to specific pieces of fitness equipment he wanted. Don't bother wrapping them, babe, in case you get it wrong and I need to send them back. All I had done was press a button. I had never spent Christmas with Will. Now I went shoulder to shoulder with the other shoppers in Saks, trying to imagine my boyfriend in the cashmere sweaters, my face pressed against them, the soft checked shirts he liked to wear in the garden, thick outdoor socks from REI. I bought toys for Thom, getting a sugar high from the scents in the M&M store in Times Square. I bought stationery for Treena from McNally Jackson and a beautiful dressing gown for Granddad from Macy's. Feeling flush, as I had spent so little over the past months, I bought Mum a little bracelet from Tiffany and a wind-up radio for Dad to use in his shed.
And then, as an afterthought, I bought a stocking for Sam. I filled it with small gifts: aftershave, novelty gum, socks, and a beer holder in the shape of a woman in denim hotpants. Finally I went back to the toy store where I had bought Thom's presents and bought a few pieces of dollhouse furniture--a bed, a table and chairs, a sofa, and a bathroom suite. I wrapped them and wrote on the label: Until the real one is finished. I found a tiny medical kit and included that too, marveling at the detail contained within it. And suddenly Christmas felt real and exciting, and the prospect of almost ten days away from the Gopniks and the city felt like a gift in itself.
--
I arrived at the airport, praying silently that the weight of my gifts hadn't pushed me over the limit. The woman at checkin took my passport and asked me to lift my suitcase onto the scales--and frowned as she looked at the screen.
"Is there a problem?" I said when she glanced at my passport, then behind her. I mentally calculated how much I might have to pay for the added weight.
"Oh, no, ma'am. You shouldn't be in this line."
"You're kidding." My heart sank as I looked over at the heaving queues behind me. "Well, where should I be?"
"You're in business class."
"Business?"
"Yes, ma'am. You've been upgraded. You should be checking in over there. But it's no problem. I can do it for you here."
I shook my head. "Oh, I don't think so. I . . ."
And then my phone dinged. I looked down.
You should be at the airport by now! Hope this makes your journey home a bit more pleasant. Little gift from Agnes.
See you in the New Year, comrade! Michael x
I blinked. "That's fine. Thank you." I watched my oversized suitcase disappear down the conveyor belt and put my phone back into my bag.
--
The airport had been heaving, but in the business-class section of the plane everything was calm and peaceful, a little oasis of collective smugness removed from the holiday-related chaos outside. On board, I investigated my washbag of complimentary overnight goodies, pulled on my free socks, and tried not to talk too much to the man in the next seat, who eventually put his eye mask on and lay back. I had just one hiccup with the reclining seat when my shoe got caught in the foot rest but the steward was perfectly lovely and showed me how to get it out. I ate duck in a sherry glaze and lemon tart, and thanked all the staff who brought me things. I watched two films and realized I should really try to sleep for a bit. But it was hard when the whole experience was so delightful. It was exactly the kind of thing I would have written home about--except, I thought, with butterflies in my stomach, now I was going to get to tell everyone in person.
I was returning home a different Louisa Clark. That was what Sam had said, and I had decided to believe it. I was more confident, more professional, a long way from the sad, conflicted, physically broken person of six months ago. I thought about Sam's face when I would surprise him, just as he had surprised me. He had sent me a copy of his rota for the next fortnight so that I could plan my visits to my parents, and I had calculated that I could drop my belongings at the flat, grab a few hours with my sister, then head over to his and be there to meet him for the end of his shift.
This time, I thought, we would get it right. We had a decent length of time to spend together. And this time we would settle into some kind of routine--a way of existing with no trauma or misunderstandings. The first three months were always going to be the hardest. I pulled my blanket over me and, already too far over the Atlantic for it to be of use, tried and failed to sleep, my stomach tight and my mind buzzing as I watched the tiny winking plane slide its way slowly across my pixelated screen.
--
I arrived at my flat shortly after lunchtime and let myself in, fumbling with my keys. Treena was at work, Thom was still at school, and London's gray was punctured by glitter, Christmas lights, and the sound of shops playing Christmas carols I'd heard a million times before. I walked up the stairs of my old building, breathing in the familiar scent of cheap air freshener and London damp, then opened my front door, dropped my suitcase the few inches to the floor, and let out a breath.
Home. Or something like it.
I walked down the hall, shedding my jacket, and let myself into the living room. I had been a little afraid of returning here--remembering the months in which I had been sunk in depression, drinking too much, its empty, unloved rooms a self-inflicted rebuke for my failure to save the man who had given it to me. But this, I grasped immediately, was not the same flat: in three months it had been utterly transformed. The once-bare interior was now full of color, paintings by Thom pinned to every wall. There were embroidered cushions on the sofa and a new upholstered chair and curtains and a shelf bursting with DVDs. The kitchen was crammed with food packets and new crockery. A cereal bowl and Coco Pops on a rainbow placemat spoke of a hurriedly abandoned breakfast.
I opened the door to my spare room--now Thom's--smiling at the football posters and cartoon-printed duvet. A new wardrobe was stuffed with his clothes. Then I walked through to my bedroom--now Treena's--and found a rumpled quilt, a new bookshelf, and blinds. Still not much in the way of clothes, but she'd added a chair and a mirror, and the little dressing table was covered with the moisturizers, hairbrushes, and cosmetics that told me my sister might have changed beyond recognition even in the few short months I had been gone. The only thing that told me it was
Treena's room was the bedside reading: Tolley's Capital Allowances and An Introduction to Payroll.
I knew I was overtired but I felt wrong-footed all the same. Was this how Sam had felt when he flew out and saw me the second time? Had I seemed so familiar and unfamiliar at the same time?
My eyes were gritty with exhaustion, my internal clock haywire. There were still three hours before they'd get home. I washed my face, took off my shoes, and lay down on the sofa with a sigh, the sound of London traffic slowly receding.
--
I woke to a sticky hand patting my cheek. I blinked, trying to bat it away, but there was a weight on my chest. It moved. A hand patted me again. And then I opened my eyes and found myself staring into Thom's.
"Auntie Lou! Auntie Lou!"
I groaned. "Hey, Thom."
"What did you get me?"
"Let her at least open her eyes first."
"You're on my boob, Thom. Ow."
Released, I pushed myself upright and blinked at my nephew, who was now bouncing up and down.
"What did you get me?"
My sister stooped and kissed my cheek, leaving one hand on my shoulder, which she squeezed. She smelled of expensive perfume and I pulled back slightly to see her better. She was wearing makeup. Proper makeup, subtly blended, rather than the one blue eyeliner she had received free with a magazine in 1994 and kept in a desk drawer to be used on every "dressing-up" occasion for the next ten years.
"You made it, then. Didn't get the wrong plane and end up in Caracas. Me and Dad had a bit of a bet on."
"Cheek." I reached up and held her hand for a moment longer than either of us had expected. "Wow. You look pretty."
She did. She'd had her hair trimmed to shoulder length and it hung in blow-dried waves rather than the usual scraped-back ponytail. That, the well-cut shirt, and the mascara actually made her look beautiful.
"Well. It's work, really. You have to make the effort in the City." She turned away as she said this, so I didn't believe her.
"I think I need to meet this Eddie," I said. "I certainly never had this much of an effect on what you wore."
She filled the kettle and switched it on. "That's because you only ever dress like someone gave you a two-pound voucher for a jumble sale and you decided to blow the lot."