by Jojo Moyes
He put his hand on his heart. "Louisa, I do not want to know about your thing. I'm just happy to see you."
"I honestly would tell you if I could."
"I have no curiosity about this gigantic, life-altering secret whatsoever. You're safe with me." He took a swig of his drink and smiled his perfect smile at me, and for the first time in two weeks I felt a tiny bit less lonely.
--
Two hours later the bar was overheated and three deep with exhausted tourists, marveling at three-dollar beers, and regulars rammed along its narrow length, the vast majority focused on a boxing match on the TV in the corner. They cried out in unison at a swift uppercut, and roared as one when their man, his face pulped and misshapen, went down against the ropes. Josh was the only man in the whole place not watching it, leaning quietly over his bottle of beer, his eyes on mine.
I, in turn, was slumped over the table and telling him at length the story of Treena and Edwina on Christmas Day, one of the few stories I could legitimately share, along with that of Granddad's stroke, the story of the grand piano (I said it was for Agnes's niece) and--in case I sounded too gloomy--my lovely upgrade from New York to London. I don't know how many vodkas I'd had by then--Josh tended to magic them in front of me before I'd realized I was done with the last one--but some distant part of me was aware that my voice had acquired a weird, sing-song quality, sliding up and down not always in accordance with what I was saying.
"Well, that's cool, right?" he said, when I reached Dad's speech about happiness. I may have made it a little more Lifetime movie than it had been. In my latest version Dad had become Atticus Finch delivering his closing speech to the courtroom in To Kill a Mockingbird.
"It's all good," Josh went on. "He just wants her to be happy. When my cousin Tim came out to my uncle he didn't speak to him for, like, a year."
"They're so happy," I said, stretching my arms across the table just so I could feel the cool bits on my skin, trying to not mind that it was sticky. "It's great. It really is." I took another sip of my drink. "It's like you look at them both together and you're so glad because, you know, Treena's been on her own for a million years but honestly . . . it would be really nice if they could just be a teeny tiny bit less glowy and radiant around each other. Like not always gazing into each other's eyes. Or doing that secret smile which is all about the private shared jokes. Or the one that means they just had really, really great sex. And maybe Treena could just stop sending me pictures of the two of them together. Or text messages about every amazing thing that Eddie says or does. Which apparently is pretty much anything she says or does."
"Ah, c'mon. They're newly in love, right? People do that stuff."
"I never did. Did you do that stuff? Seriously, I have never sent anyone pictures of me kissing someone. If I'd sent a picture of me snuggling with a boyfriend to Treena she would have reacted like I'd sent her a dick pic. I mean, this is the woman who found all displays of emotion disgusting."
"Then it's the first time she's been in love. And she'll be delighted to get the next picture you send her of you being nauseatingly happy with your boyfriend." He looked like he was laughing at me. "Maybe not the dick pic."
"You think I'm a terrible person."
"I don't think you're a terrible person. Just a fairly . . . refreshed one."
I groaned. "I know. I'm a terrible person. I'm not asking them not to be happy, just to be a teeny bit sensitive to those of us who might not be . . . just at this . . ." I'd run out of words.
Josh had settled back in his chair and was now watching me.
"Ex-boyfriend," I said, my voice slurring slightly. "He's now an ex-boyfriend."
He raised his eyebrows. "Woah. Quite the couple of weeks, then."
"Oh, man." I rested my forehead on the table. "You have no idea."
I was conscious of a silence falling gently between us. I wondered briefly if I might just take a little power nap right there. It felt so nice. The sounds of the boxing match briefly receded. My forehead was only a little bit wet. And then I felt his hand on mine. "Okay, Louisa. I think it's time we got you out of here."
I said good-bye to all the nice people on my way out, high-fiving as many as I could (some seemed to miss my hand--idiots). For some reason, Josh kept apologizing out loud. I think maybe he was bumping into them as we walked. He put my jacket on me when we got to the door and I got the giggles because he couldn't get my arms into my sleeves, and when he did, it was the wrong way round, like a straitjacket. "I give up," he said eventually. "Just wear it like that." I heard someone shout, "Take a little water with it, lady."
"I am a lady!" I exclaimed. "An English lady! I am Louisa Clark the First, aren't I, Joshua?" I turned to face them and air-punched. I was leaning against the wall of photographs and brought a few clattering down on top of me.
"We're going, we're going," Josh said, raising his hands toward the barman. Someone started shouting. He was still apologizing to everyone. I told him it wasn't good to apologize--Will had taught me that. You had to hold your head up.
And suddenly we were out in the brisk cold air. Then, before I knew it, I tripped on something and suddenly I was on the icy pavement, my knees smacking onto the hard concrete. I swore.
"Oh, boy," said Josh, who had his arm firmly round my waist and was hauling me upright. "I think we need to get you some coffee."
He smelled so nice. He smelled like Will had--expensive, like the men's section of a posh department store. I put my nose against his neck and inhaled as we staggered along the pavement. "You smell lovely."
"Thank you very much."
"Very expensive."
"Good to know."
"I might lick you."
"If it makes you feel better."
I licked him. His aftershave didn't taste as nice as it smelled but it was kind of nice to lick someone. "It does make me feel better," I said, with some surprise. "It really does!"
"Oooh-kay. Here's the best spot to get a cab." He maneuvered himself so that he was facing me and put his hands on my shoulders. Around us Times Square was blinding and dizzying, a glittering neon circus, its leviathan images looming down at me with impossible brightness. I turned slowly, gazing up at the lights and feeling like I might fall over. I went round and round while they blurred, then staggered slightly. I felt Josh catch me.
"I can put you in a cab home, because I think you might need to sleep this off. Or we can walk to mine and get some coffee down you. Your choice." It was after one in the morning yet he had to shout to be heard over the noise of the people around us. He was so handsome in his shirt and jacket. So clean cut and crisp-looking. I liked him so much. I turned in his arms and blinked at him. It would have been helpful if he'd stopped swaying.
"That's very kind of you," he said.
"Did I say all that out loud?"
"Yup."
"Sorry. But you really are. Terrifically handsome. Like American handsome. Like an actual movie star. Josh?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I might sit down. My head has gone kind of fuzzy." I was halfway to the ground when I felt him sweep me up again.
"And there we go."
"I really want to tell you the thing. But I can't tell you the thing."
"Then don't tell me the thing."
"You'd understand. I know you would. You know . . . you look so like someone I loved. Really loved. Did you know that? You look just so like him."
"That's . . . nice to know."
"It is nice. He was terrifically handsome. Just like you. Movie-star handsome . . . Did I say that already? He died. Did I tell you he died?"
"I'm sorry for your loss. But I think we need to get you out of here." He walked me down two blocks, hailed a cab, and, with some effort, helped me in. I fought my way upright on the backseat and held on to his sleeve. He was half in, half out of the taxi door.
"Where to, lady?" The driver looked behind him.
I looked at Josh. "Can you stay with me?"
"
Sure. Where are we going?"
I saw the wary glance of the driver in his rearview mirror. A television blared from the back of his seat and a television studio audience burst into applause. Outside, everyone started to honk their horns at once. The lights were too bright. New York was suddenly too loud, too everything. "I don't know. Your house," I said. "I can't go back. Not yet." I looked at him and felt suddenly tearful. "Do you know I have two legs in two places?"
He tilted his head toward me. His face was kind. "Louisa Clark, that doesn't surprise me."
I let my head rest on his shoulder and felt his arm slide gently around me.
--
I woke to the sound of a phone ringing; shrill and insistent. The blessed relief of it stopping, then a man's voice murmuring. The welcome bitter smell of coffee. I shifted, trying to lift my head from the pillow. The resulting pain through my temples was so intense and unforgiving that I let out a little animal sound, like a dog whose tail had just been trapped in a door. I closed my eyes, took a breath, then opened them again.
This was not my bed.
It was still not my bed when I opened them a third time.
This indisputable fact was enough to prompt me to attempt to lift my head again, this time ignoring the thumping pain long enough to focus. Nope, this was definitely not my bed. This was also not my bedroom. In fact, it was no bedroom I had ever seen before. I took in the clothes--men's clothes--folded neatly over the back of a chair, the television in the corner, the desk and the wardrobe, and became aware of the voice growing nearer. And then the door opened and Josh walked in, fully suited, holding a mug with one hand, his phone pressed to his ear with the other. He caught my eye, raised an eyebrow, and placed the mug on the bedside table, still talking.
"Yeah, there's been a problem with the subway. I'm going to grab a cab and I'll be there in twenty . . . Sure. No problem . . . No, she's on that already."
I pushed myself upright, discovering as I did so that I was in a man's T-shirt. The ramifications of this took a couple of minutes to seep in, and I felt the blush start from somewhere around my chest.
"No, we already talked about that yesterday. He's got all the paperwork ready to go."
He turned away, and I wriggled back down, so that the duvet was around my neck. I was wearing knickers. That was something.
"Yeah. It'll be great. Yup--lunch sounds good." Josh rang off and shoved his phone into his pocket. "Good morning! I was just going to get you a side order of Advil. Want me to find you a couple? I'm afraid I have to go."
"Go?" My mouth tasted rank, as dry as if it had been lightly powdered. I opened and closed it a couple of times, noting it made a faintly disgusting smacking sound.
"To work. It's Friday?"
"Oh, God. What time is it?"
"A quarter of seven. I have to shoot. Already running late. Will you be okay letting yourself out?" He rummaged in a drawer and withdrew a blister pack, which he placed beside me. "There. That should help."
I pushed my hair back from my face. It was slightly damp with sweat and astonishingly matted. "What--what happened?"
"We can talk about it later. Drink your coffee."
I took a sip obediently. It was strong and restorative. I suspected I would need another six. "Why am I in your T-shirt?"
He grinned. "That would be the dance."
"The dance?" My stomach lurched.
He stooped and kissed my cheek. He smelled of soap and cleanliness and citrus and all things wholesome. I was aware that I was giving off hot waves of stale sweat and alcohol and shame. "It was a fun night. Hey--just make sure you give the door a really good slam when you leave, okay? Sometimes it doesn't catch properly. I'll call you later."
He saluted from the doorway, turned and was gone, patting his pockets as if to reassure himself of something as he left.
"Hold on--where am I?" I yelled a minute later, but he was already gone.
--
I was in SoHo, it turned out. One giant angry traffic jam away from where I was meant to be. I caught the subway from Spring Street to Fifty-ninth Street, trying not to sweat gently into yesterday's crumpled shirt and grateful for the small mercy that I was not in my usual glittery evening clothes. I had never really understood the term "grubby" until that morning. I could remember almost nothing from the previous evening. And what I did remember came to me in unpleasant hot flashbacks.
Me sitting down in the middle of Times Square.
Me licking Josh's neck. I had actually licked his neck.
What was that about dancing?
If I hadn't been hanging on to the subway pole for dear life, I would have held my head in my hands. Instead I closed my eyes, lurched my way through the stations, shifted to avoid the backpacks and the grumpy commuters locked into their earphones, and tried not to throw up.
Just get through today, I told myself. If life had taught me one thing, it was that the answers would come soon enough.
--
I was just opening the door to my room when Mr. Gopnik appeared. He was still dressed in his workout gear--unusual for him after seven--and lifted a hand when he saw me, as if he had been trying to locate me for some time. "Ah. Louisa."
"I'm sorry I--"
"I'd like to talk to you in my study. Now."
Of course you would, I thought. Of course. He turned and walked back up the corridor. I cast an anguished look at my room, which held my clean clothes, deodorant, and toothpaste. I thought longingly about a second coffee. But Mr. Gopnik was not the kind of man you kept waiting.
I glanced down at my phone, then jogged after him.
--
I walked into the study to find him already seated. "I'm really sorry I was ten minutes late. I'm not normally late. I just had to . . ."
Mr. Gopnik was behind his desk, his expression unreadable. Agnes was on the upholstered chair by the coffee table in her workout gear. Neither of them asked me to sit down. Something in the atmosphere made me feel suddenly horribly sober.
"Is . . . is everything okay?"
"I'm hoping you can tell me. I had a call from my personal account manager this morning."
"Your what?"
"The man who handles my banking operations. I wondered if you could explain this."
He pushed a piece of paper toward me. It was a bank statement, with the totals blacked out. My eyesight was a little blurry but just one thing was visible, a trail of figures, five hundred dollars a day under "cash withdrawals."
It was then that I noticed Agnes's expression. She was staring fixedly at her hands, her mouth compressed into a thin line. Her gaze flickered toward me and away again. I stood, a fine trickle of sweat running down my back.
"He told me something very interesting. Apparently in the run-up to Christmas a considerable sum of money was removed from our joint bank account. It was removed day by day from a nearby ATM in amounts that were--perhaps--designed not to be noticed. He picked it up because they have anti-fraud software designed to identify strange patterns of use in any of our bank cards and this was flagged up as unusual. Obviously this was a little concerning so I asked Agnes and she told me it wasn't anything to do with her. So I asked Ashok to provide the CCTV for the days concerned and my security people matched it up with the times of the withdrawals and it turns out, Louisa," here he looked at me directly, "the only person going in and out of the building at those times was you."
My eyes widened.
"Now, I could go to the banks concerned and ask them to provide the CCTV from their ATMs at the times the amount was taken, but I'd rather not put them to that trouble. So really I wanted to know whether you could explain what was going on here. And why almost ten thousand dollars was removed from our joint account."
I looked at Agnes but she was still looking away from me.
My mouth had dried even more than it had that morning.
"I had to do some . . . Christmas shopping. For Agnes."
"You have a card to do that. Which clearly shows which
shops you've been in and you provide the receipts for all purchases. Which, up to now, I gather from Michael, you have done. But cash . . . cash is rather less transparent. Do you have the receipts for this shopping?"
"No."
"And can you tell me what you bought?"
"I . . . No."
"So what has happened to the money, Louisa?"
I couldn't speak. I swallowed. And then I said, "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I--I didn't steal anything." I felt the color rising to my cheeks.
"So Agnes is lying?"
"No."
"Louisa--Agnes knows that I would give her anything she wanted. To be frank, she could spend ten times that in a day and I wouldn't bat an eyelid. So she has no reason to sneak around withdrawing cash sums from the nearest ATM. So I'm asking you again, what happened to the money?"
I felt flushed, panicky. And then Agnes looked up at me. Her face was a silent plea.
"Louisa?"
"Perhaps I--I might have taken it."
"You might have taken it?"
"For shopping. Not for me. You can check my room. You can check my bank account."
"You spent ten thousand dollars on 'shopping.' Shopping for what?"
"Just . . . bits and pieces."
He lowered his head briefly, as if he were trying to control his temper.
"Bits and pieces," he repeated slowly. "Louisa, you realize your being in this household is a matter of trust."
"I do, Mr. Gopnik. And I take that very seriously."
"You have access to the most inner workings of this household. You have keys, credit cards, intimate knowledge of our routines. You are well rewarded for that--because we understand this is a position of responsibility and we rely on you to not betray that responsibility."
"Mr. Gopnik. I love this job. I wouldn't . . ." I cast an anguished look at Agnes, but she was still staring down. One of her hands, I saw, was holding the other, her fingernail digging deep into the flesh of the ball of her thumb.
"You really can't explain what has happened to that money?"