by Jojo Moyes
I pulled a face. "Oh, God. The dance thing. I . . . Do I . . . want to ask you what happened the other night?"
"You really don't remember?"
"Only the Times Square bits. Maybe getting into a taxi."
He raised his eyebrows. "Oho! Oh, Louisa Clark. It's pretty tempting to start teasing you here, but nothing happened. Like that, anyway. Unless licking my neck is really your thing."
"But I wasn't wearing my clothes when I woke up."
"That's because you insisted on removing them during your dance. You announced, once we got to my building, that you would like to express your last few days through the medium of freeform dance, and while I followed on behind, you shed items of clothing from the lobby to the living room."
"I took my own clothes off?"
"And very charmingly too. There were . . . flourishes."
I had a sudden image of myself twirling, a coy leg thrust out from behind a curtain, the feel of cool window glass on my backside. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. My cheeks a furious red, I covered my face with my hands.
"I have to say, as a drunk you make a highly entertaining one."
"And . . . when we got into your bedroom?"
"Oh, by that stage you were down to your underwear. And then you sang a crazy song--something about a monkey, or a molahonkey or something? Then you fell asleep very abruptly in a little heap on the floor. So I put a T-shirt on you and put you in my bed. And I slept on the sofa bed."
"I'm so sorry. And thank you."
"My pleasure." He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. "Most of my dates are not half that entertaining."
I dipped my head over my mug. "You know, these last few days I've felt like I'm permanently about two degrees from either laughing or crying and right now I slightly want to do both."
"Are you staying at Nathan's tonight?"
"I think so."
"Okay. Well, don't do anything hasty. Let me put a few calls in before you book that ticket. See if there are any openings anywhere."
"You really think there might be?" He was always so confident. It was one of the things that most reminded me of Will.
"There's always something. I'll call you later."
And then he kissed me. He did it so casually that I almost didn't register what he was doing. He leaned forward and kissed me on the lips, like it was something he'd done a million times before, like it was the natural end to all our lunch dates. And then, before I had time to be startled, he let go of my fingers and wound his scarf around his neck. "Okay. I gotta go. Couple of big meetings this afternoon. Keep your chin up." He smiled, his high-wattage perfect smile, and headed back to his office, leaving me on my high plastic stool, my mouth hanging open.
--
I didn't tell Nathan what had happened. I checked in with him by text that it was okay to come home, and he told me the Gopniks were headed out again at seven so I should probably leave it till a quarter past. I walked in the cold and sat in the diner and finally returned home to find Ilaria had left me some soup in a Thermos and two of the soft scones they called biscuits. Nathan was out on a date that evening and gone in the morning when I woke. He left me a note to say he hoped I was okay and reassured me that it was fine for me to stay. I only snored a little bit, apparently.
I had spent months wishing I had more free time. Now that I had it, I found the city was not a friendly place without money to burn. I left the building when it was safe to do so and walked the streets until my toes grew too cold, then had a cup of tea in a Starbucks, stretching that out for a couple of hours and using the free WiFi to search for jobs. There wasn't much for someone with no references, unless I was experienced in the food industry.
I began to layer up, now that my life did not involve mere minutes spent in the open air between heated lobbies and warm limousines. I wore a blue fisherman's jumper, my workman's dungarees, heavy boots, and a pair of tights and socks underneath. Not elegant, but that was no longer my priority.
At lunchtime I headed for a fast-food joint where the burgers were cheap and nobody noticed a solitary diner eking out a bun for another hour or two. Department stores were a depressing no-no, as I no longer felt able to spend money, although there were good Ladies and WiFi. Twice I headed down to the Vintage Clothes Emporium, where the girls commiserated with me but exchanged the slightly tense looks of those who suspect they are going to be asked a favor. "If you hear of any jobs going--especially like yours--can you let me know?" I said, when I could no longer browse the rails.
"Sweetheart, we barely make rent or we'd have you here like a shot." Lydia blew a sympathetic smoke ring at the ceiling and looked to her sister, who batted it away.
"You'll make the clothes stink. Look, we'll ask around," Angelica said. She said it in a way that made me think I was not the first person who had asked.
I trudged out of the shop feeling despondent. I didn't know what to do with myself. There was nowhere quiet where I could just sit for a while, nowhere that offered space where I could work out what to do next. If you didn't have money in New York, you were a refugee, unwelcome anywhere for too long. Perhaps, I mused, it was time to admit defeat and buy that plane ticket.
And then it hit me.
I took the subway up to Washington Heights and got off a short walk from the library. It felt, for the first time in days, like I was somewhere familiar, somewhere that welcomed me. This would be my refuge, my springboard to a new future. I headed up the stone steps. On the first floor I found an unoccupied computer terminal. I sat down heavily, took a breath, and, for the first time since the Gopnik debacle, I closed my eyes and just let my thoughts settle.
I felt some long-held tension ease away from my shoulders and let myself float on the low murmur of people around me, a world away from the chaos and bustle of outside. I don't know if it was just the joy of being surrounded by books, and quiet, but I felt like an equal here, inconspicuous, a brain, a keyboard, just another person searching for information.
And there, for the first time, I found myself asking what the hell had just happened anyway. Agnes had betrayed me. My months with the Gopniks suddenly felt like a fever dream, time out of time, a strange, compacted blur of limousines and gilded interiors, a world onto which a curtain had been briefly drawn back, then abruptly closed again.
This, in contrast, was real. This, I told myself, was where I could come each day until I had worked out my strategy. Here I would find the steps to forge a new route upward.
Knowledge is power, Clark.
"Ma'am."
I opened my eyes to find a security guard in front of me. He stooped so that he was looking directly into my face. "You can't sleep in here."
"What?"
"You can't sleep in here."
"I wasn't sleeping," I said indignantly. "I was thinking."
"Maybe think with your eyes open then, huh? Or you got to leave." He turned away, murmuring something into a walkie-talkie. It took me a moment to register what he had really been saying to me. Two people at a nearby table looked up at me and then away. My face flushed. I saw the awkward glances of other library users around me. I looked down at my clothes, at my denim dungarees with the fleece-lined workman's boots and my woolen hat. Not quite Bergdorf Goodman but hardly Vagrant City.
"Hey! I'm not homeless!" I called out at his departing back. "I have protested on behalf of this place! Mister! I AM NOT HOMELESS!" Two women looked up from their quiet conversation, one raising an eyebrow.
And then it occurred to me: I was.
22
Dear Ma,
Sorry it's been a while since I've been in contact. We're working round the clock on this Chinese deal here, and I'm often up all night coping with different time zones. If I sound a bit jaded, it's because I feel it. I got the bonus, which was nice (am sending Georgina a chunk so she can buy that car she wants), but over the last few weeks I've realized ultimately I'm not really feeling it here anymore.
It's not that I don't like the lifestyl
e--and you know I've never been afraid of hard work. I just miss so many things about England. I miss the humor. I miss Sunday lunch. I miss hearing English accents, at least the non-phoney kind (you would not believe how many people end up plummier than Her Maj). I like being able to pop across for weekends in Paris or Barcelona or Rome. And the expat thing is pretty tedious. In the goldfish bowl of finance here you just end up running into the same faces whether you're in Nantucket or Manhattan. I know you think I have a type, but here it's almost comical: blond hair, size zero, identikit wardrobes, off to the same Pilates classes . . .
So here's the thing: do you remember Rupe? My old friend from Churchill's? He says there's an opening at his firm. His boss is flying out in a couple of weeks and wants to meet me. If all goes well I might be back in England sooner than you think.
I've loved New York. But everything has its time, and I think I've had mine.
Love, Will x
Over the next few days I rang up about numerous jobs on Craigslist, but the nice-sounding woman with the nanny job put the phone down on me when she heard I had no references, and the food-server jobs were already gone by the time I called. The shoe-shop assistant position was still available but the man I spoke to told me the wage would be two dollars an hour lower than advertised because of my lack of relevant retail experience, and I calculated that would barely leave me enough for travel. I spent my mornings in the diner, my afternoons in the library at Washington Heights, which was quiet and warm and, apart from that one security guard, nobody eyed me like they were waiting for me to start singing drunkenly or pee in a corner.
I would meet Josh for lunch in the noodle bar by his office every couple of days, update him on my job-hunting activities and try to ignore that, next to his immaculately dressed, go-getting presence, I felt increasingly like a grubby, sofa-hopping loser. "You're going to be fine, Louisa. Just hang in there," he would say, and kiss me as he left, like somehow we had already agreed to be boyfriend and girlfriend. I couldn't think about the significance of this along with everything else I had to think about so I just figured that it was not actually a bad thing, like so much in my life was, and could therefore be parked for now. Besides, he always tasted pleasingly minty.
I couldn't stay in Nathan's room much longer. The previous morning I had woken with his big arm slung over me and something hard pressing into the small of my back. The cushion wall had apparently gone awry, migrating to a chaotic heap at our feet. I froze, attempted to wriggle discreetly out of his sleeping grasp and he had opened his eyes, looked at me, then leaped out of bed as if he had been stung, a pillow clutched in front of his groin. "Mate. I didn't mean--I wasn't trying to--"
"No idea what you're talking about!" I insisted, pulling a sweatshirt over my head. I couldn't look at him in case it--
He hopped from foot to foot. "I was just--I didn't realize I . . . Ah, mate. Ah, Jeez."
"It's fine! I needed to get up anyway!" I bolted and hid in the tiny bathroom for ten minutes, my cheeks burning, while I listened to him crashing around and getting dressed. He was gone before I came out.
What was the point in trying to stay after all? I could sleep in Nathan's room for only a night or two more at most. It looked like the best I could expect elsewhere, even if I was lucky enough to find alternative employment, was a minimum-wage job and a cockroach-and bedbug-infested flat share. At least if I went home I could sleep on my own sofa. Perhaps Treen and Eddie were besotted enough with each other that they would move in together and then I could have my flat back. I tried not to think about how that would feel--the empty rooms and the return to where I had been six months earlier, not to mention the proximity to Sam's workplace. Every siren I heard passing would be a bitter reminder of what I had lost.
It had started to rain, but I slowed as I approached the building and glanced up at the Gopniks' windows from under my woolen hat, registering that the lights were still on, even though Nathan had told me they were out at some gala event. Life had moved on for them as smoothly as if I had never existed. Perhaps Ilaria was up there now, vacuuming, or tutting at Agnes's magazines scattered over the sofa cushions. The Gopniks--and this city--had sucked me in and spat me right out. Despite all her fond words, Agnes had discarded me as comprehensively and completely as a lizard sheds its skin--and not cast a backward look.
If I had never come, I thought angrily, I might still have a home. And a job.
If I had never come, I would still have Sam.
The thought caused my mood to darken further and I hunched my shoulders and thrust my freezing hands into my pockets, prepared to head back to my temporary accommodation, a room I had to sneak into, and a bed I had to share with someone who was terrified of touching me. My life had become ridiculous, a looping bad joke. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the cold rain on my skin. I would book my ticket tonight and I would go home on the next available flight. I would suck it up and start again. I didn't really have a choice.
Everything has its time.
It was then that I spotted Dean Martin. He was standing on the covered carpet that led up to the apartment building, shivering without his coat on and glancing around as if deciding where to go next. I took a step closer, peering into the lobby, but the night man was busy sorting through some packages and hadn't seen him. I couldn't see Mrs. De Witt anywhere. I moved swiftly, leaned down, and scooped him up before he had time to grasp what I was doing. Holding his wriggling body at arms' length, I ran in and swiftly up the back stairs to take him back to her, nodding at the night man as I went.
It was a valid reason for being there, but I emerged from the stairs onto the Gopniks' corridor with trepidation: if they returned unexpectedly and saw me, would Mr. Gopnik conclude I was up to no good? Would he accuse me of trespass? Did it count if I was on their corridor? These questions buzzed around my head as Dean Martin writhed furiously and snapped at my arms.
"Mrs. De Witt?" I called softly, peering behind me. Her front door was ajar again and I stepped inside, lifting my voice. "Mrs. De Witt? Your dog got out again." I could hear the television blaring down the corridor and took a few steps further inside.
"Mrs. De Witt?"
When no answer came, I closed the door gently behind me and put Dean Martin on the floor, keen not to hold him for any longer than I had to. He immediately trotted off toward the living room.
"Mrs. De Witt?"
I saw her leg first, sticking out on the floor beside the upright chair. It took me a second to register what I was seeing. Then I ran round to the front of the chair and threw myself to the floor, my ear to her mouth. "Mrs. De Witt?" I said. "Can you hear me?"
She was breathing. But her face was the blue-white of marble. I wondered briefly how long she had been there.
"Mrs. De Witt? Wake up! Oh, God . . . wake up!"
I ran around the apartment, looking for the phone. It was in the hallway, situated on a table that also housed several phone books. I rang 911 and explained what I had found.
"There's a team on its way, ma'am," came the voice. "Can you stay with the patient and let them in?"
"Yes, yes, yes. But she's really old and frail and she looks like she's out cold. Please come quickly." I ran and fetched a quilt from her bedroom and placed it over her, trying to remember what Sam had told me about treating the elderly who had taken a fall. One of the biggest risks was their growing chilled from lying undiscovered for hours. And she felt so cold, even with the full blast of the building's central heating. I sat on the floor beside her and took her icy hand in mine, stroking her gently, trying to let her know somebody was there. A sudden thought crossed my mind: if she died, would they blame me? Mr. Gopnik would testify that I was a criminal, after all. I wondered briefly about whether to run, but I couldn't leave her.
It was during this tortured train of thought that she opened an eye.
"Mrs. De Witt?"
She blinked at me, as if trying to work out what had happened.
"It's Louisa. From across the corridor
. Are you in pain?"
"I don't know . . . My . . . my wrist . . . ," she said weakly.
"The ambulance is coming. You're going to be okay. It's all going to be okay."
She looked blankly at me, as if trying to piece together who I was, whether what I was saying made any sense. And then her brow furrowed. "Where is he? Dean Martin? Where's my dog?"
I scanned the room. Over in the corner the little dog was parked on his backside, noisily investigating his genitals. He looked up when he heard his name and adjusted himself back into a standing position. "He's right here. He's okay."
She closed her eyes again, relieved. "Will you look after him? If I have to go to the hospital? I am going to the hospital, aren't I?"
"Yes. And of course."
"There's a folder in my bedroom that you need to give them. On my bedside table."
"No problem. We'll do that."
I closed my hands around hers, and while Dean Martin eyed me warily from the doorway--well, me and the fireplace--we waited in silence for the paramedics to come.
--
I traveled to the hospital with Mrs. De Witt, leaving Dean Martin in the apartment, as he wasn't allowed in the ambulance. Once her paperwork was done and she was settled, I headed for the Lavery after reassuring her that I would look after the dog. I would be back in the morning to let her know how he was doing. Her tiny blue eyes had filled with tears as she issued croaking instructions about his food, his walks, his various likes and dislikes, until the paramedic shushed her, insisting that she needed to rest.
I caught the subway back to Fifth Avenue, simultaneously bone-weary and buzzing with adrenaline. I let myself in, using the key Mrs. De Witt had given me. Dean Martin was waiting in the hallway, standing foursquare in the middle of the floor, his compact body radiating suspicion.
"Good evening, young man! Would you like some supper?" I said, as if I were his old friend and not someone vaguely expecting to lose a chunk out of one of my lower legs. I walked past him with simulated confidence to the kitchen, where I tried to decipher the instructions as to the correct amount of cooked chicken and kibble that I had scribbled on the back of my hand.
I placed the food in his dish and pushed it toward him with my foot.