Still Me

by Jojo Moyes

  Josh lifted an arm and the older man walked over slowly, a statuesque brunette woman at his side, her smile oddly blank. Perhaps if you had to be nice to everyone all the time that was what eventually happened to your face.

  "Are you enjoying the afternoon?"

  "Very much so, sir," Josh said. "What a truly beautiful setting. May I introduce my girlfriend? This is Louisa Clark, from England. Louisa, this is Mitchell Dumont. He's head of Mergers and Acquisitions."

  "English, eh?" I felt the man's huge hand close over mine and shake it emphatically.

  "Yes. I--"

  "Good. Good." He turned back to Josh. "So, young man, I hear you're making quite a splash in your department."

  Josh couldn't hide his delight. His smile spread across his face. His eyes flickered to me and then to the woman beside me, and I realized he was expecting me to make conversation with her. Nobody had bothered to introduce us. Mitchell Dumont put a paternal arm around Josh's shoulders and walked him a few feet away.

  "So . . ." I said. I raised my eyebrows and lowered them again.

  She smiled blankly at me.

  "I love your dress," I said, the universal smoother for two women who have absolutely nothing to say to each other.

  "Thank you. Cute shoes," she said. But she said it in the way that meant they weren't cute at all. She glanced over, plainly wondering if she could find someone else to talk to. She had taken one look at my outfit and deemed herself way beyond my pay grade.

  There was nobody else nearby, so I tried again. "So do you come here a lot? To the Loeb Boathouse, I mean?"

  "It's Lobe," she said.

  "Lobe?"

  "You pronounced it Lerb. It's Loeb."

  Looking at her perfectly made up, suspiciously plump lips repeatedly saying the word made me want to giggle. I took a swig of my champagne to disguise it. "So do you cerm to the Lerb Berthouse often?" I said, unable to help myself.

  "No," she said. "Although one of my friends got married here last year. That was such a beautiful wedding."

  "I'll bet. And what do you do?"

  "I'm a homemaker."

  "A herm-maker! My merther is also a herm-maker." I took another long sip of my drink. "Herm-making is perfectly lervely." I saw Josh, his face focused intently on his boss's, reminding me briefly of Thom's when he was pleading with Dad to give him some of his crisps.

  The woman's expression had become faintly concerned--or as far as a woman who couldn't move her brow could express concern. A bubble of giggles had started to build in my chest and I pleaded with some unseen deity to keep them under control.

  "Maya!" Her voice tinged with relief, Mrs. Dumont (at least, I assumed that was whom I'd been talking to) waved at a woman approaching us, her perfect figure neatly pinned into a mint-colored shift dress. I waited while they air-kissed.

  "You look simply gorgeous."

  "As do you. I love that dress."

  "Oh, it's so old. And you're so sweet. How's that darling husband of yours? Always talking business."

  "Oh, you know Mitchell." Mrs. Dumont plainly couldn't ignore my presence any longer. "This is Joshua Ryan's girlfriend. I'm so sorry, I missed your name. Terribly noisy in here."

  "Louisa," I said.

  "How lovely. I'm Chrissy. I'm Jeffrey's other half. You know Jeffrey in Sales and Marketing?"

  "Oh, everyone knows Jeffrey," said Mrs. Dumont.

  "Oh, Jeffrey . . . ," I said, shaking my head. Then nodding. Then shaking my head again.

  "And what do you do?"

  "What do I do?"

  "Louisa's in fashion." Josh appeared at my side.

  "You certainly do have an individual look. I love the British, don't you, Mallory? They are so interesting in their choices."

  There was a brief silence, while everyone digested my choices.

  "Louisa's about to start work at Women's Wear Daily."

  "You are?" said Mallory Dumont.

  "I am?" I said. "Yes. I am."

  "Well, that must be just thrilling. What a wonderful magazine. I must find my husband. Do excuse me." With another bland smile she walked off on her vertiginous heels, Maya beside her.

  "Why did you say that?" I said, reaching for another glass of champagne. "It sounds better than I house-sit an old lady?"

  "No. You--you just look like you might work in fashion."

  "You're still uncomfortable with what I'm wearing?" I looked over at the two women, in their complementary dresses. I had a sudden memory of how Agnes must have felt at such gatherings, the myriad subtle ways women can find to let other women know they do not fit in.

  "You look great. It's just it makes it easier to explain your--your particular . . . unique sensibility if they think you're in fashion. Which you kind of are."

  "I'm perfectly happy with what I do, Josh."

  "But you want to work in fashion, don't you? You can't look after an old woman forever. Look, I was going to tell you after--my sister-in-law, Debbie, she knows a woman in the marketing department at Women's Wear Daily. She said she's going to ask them to find out if they have any entry-level vacancies. She seems pretty confident she can do something for you. What do you say?" He was beaming, like he'd presented me with the Holy Grail.

  I took a swig of my drink. "Sure."

  "There you go. Exciting!" He kept looking at me, eyebrows raised.

  "Yay!" I said finally.

  He squeezed my shoulder. "I knew you'd be happy. Right. Let's get back out there. It's the family races next. Want a lime and soda? I don't think we can really be seen to be drinking more than one glass of the champagne. Here, let me take that for you." He put my glass on the tray of a passing waiter and we headed out into the sunshine.

  --

  Given the elegance of the occasion and the spectacular nature of the setting, I should really have enjoyed the next couple of hours. I had said yes to a new experience, after all. But in truth I felt increasingly out of place among the corporate couples. The conversational rhythms eluded me so that when I was pulled into a casual group I ended up seeming either mute or stupid. Josh moved from person to person, like a guided managerial missile, at every stop his face eager and engaged, his manner polished and assertive. I found myself watching him and wondering again what on earth he saw in me. I was nothing like these women, with their glowing peach-colored limbs and their uncreasable dresses, their tales of impossible nannies and holidays in the Bahamas. I followed in his wake, repeating his lie about my nascent fashion career and smiling mutely and agreeing that yes, yes it is very beautiful and thank you, ooh, yes, I'd love another glass of champagne and trying not to notice Josh's bobbing eyebrow.

  "How are you enjoying the day?"

  A woman with a red-haired bob so shiny it was almost mirrored stood beside me as Josh laughed uproariously at the joke of some older man in a pale blue shirt and chinos.

  "Oh. It's great. Thank you."

  I had become very good by then at smiling and saying nothing at all.

  "Felicity Lieberman. I work two desks away from Josh. He's doing really well."

  I shook her hand. "Louisa Clark. He certainly is." I stepped back and took another sip of my drink.

  "He'll make partner within two years. I'm certain of it. You two been dating long?"

  "Uh, not that long. But we've known each other a lot longer."

  She seemed to be waiting for me to say more.

  "Well, we were sort of friends before." I had drunk too much and found myself talking more than I had intended. "I was actually with someone else, but Josh and I, we kept bumping into each other. Well, he says he was waiting for me. Or waiting until me and my ex split up. It was actually kind of romantic. And a bunch of stuff happened then--bang! Suddenly we were in a relationship. You know how these things go."

  "Oh, I do. He's very persuasive, is our Josh."

  There was something in her laugh that unsettled me. "'Persuasive'?" I said, after a moment.

  "So did he do the whispering gallery on you?"


  "Did he what?"

  She must have caught my look of shock. She leaned toward me. "Felicity Lieberman, you are the cutest girl in New York." She glanced at Josh, then backtracked. "Oh, don't look like that. We weren't serious. And Josh really does like you. He talks about you a lot at work. He's definitely serious. But, Jeez, these men and their moves, right?"

  I tried to laugh. "Right."

  By the time Mr. Dumont had made a self-congratulatory speech and couples had begun to float off to their homes, I was sinking under an early hangover. Josh held open the door of a waiting taxi but I said I'd walk.

  "You don't want to come back to my place? We could grab a bite to eat."

  "I'm tired. And Margot has an appointment in the morning," I said. My cheeks were aching from all the fake smiling.

  His eyes searched my face. "You're mad at me."

  "I'm not mad at you."

  "You're mad at me because of what I said about your job." He took my hand. "Louisa, I didn't mean to upset you, sweetheart."

  "But you wanted me to be someone else. You thought I was beneath them."

  "No. I think you're great. It's just you could do better, because you have so much potential and I--"

  "Don't say that, okay? The potential thing. It's patronizing and it's insulting and . . . Well, I don't want you to say it to me. Ever. Okay?"

  "Woah." Josh glanced behind him, perhaps checking to see if any work colleagues were watching. He took my elbow. "Okay, so what is really going on here?"

  I stared at my feet. I didn't want to say anything, but I couldn't stop myself. "How many?"

  "How many what?"

  "How many women have you done that thing to? The whispering gallery?"

  It threw him. He rolled his eyes and briefly turned away. "Felicity."

  "Yeah. Felicity."

  "So you're not the first. But it's a nice thing, right? I thought you'd enjoy it. Look, I just wanted to make you smile."

  We stood on each side of the door as the taxi meter ticked, and the driver raised his eyes to the rearview mirror, waiting.

  "And it did make you smile, right? We had a moment. Didn't we have a moment?"

  "But you'd already had that moment. With someone else."

  "C'mon, Louisa. Am I the only man you've ever said nice things to? Dressed up for? Made love to? We're not teenagers. We've got history."

  "And tried and tested moves."

  "That's not fair."

  I took a breath. "I'm sorry. It's not just the whispering-gallery thing. I find these events a little tricky. I'm not used to having to pretend to be someone I'm not."

  His smile returned, his face softening. "Hey. You'll get there. They're nice people once you know them. Even the ones I've dated." He tried to smile.

  "If you say so."

  "We'll go on one of the softball days. That's a bit lower key. You'll love it."

  I raised a smile.

  He leaned forward and kissed me. "We okay?" he said.

  "We're okay."

  "You sure you don't want to come back with me?"

  "I need to check on Margot. Plus I have a headache."

  "That's what you get for knocking it back! Drink lots of water. It's probably dehydration. I'll speak to you tomorrow." He kissed me, climbed into the taxi, and closed the door. As I stood there watching, he waved, then tapped twice on the screen to send the taxi forward.

  --

  I checked the clock in the lobby when I arrived back and was surprised to find it was only six thirty. The afternoon seemed to have lasted several decades. I removed my shoes, feeling the utter relief that only a woman knows when pinched toes are finally allowed to sink into deep pile carpet, and walked up to Margot's apartment barefoot with them dangling from my hand. I felt weary and cross in a way I couldn't quite articulate, like I'd been asked to play a game whose rules I didn't understand. I'd actually felt as if I'd rather be anywhere else than where I was. And I kept thinking about Felicity Lieberman's Did he do the whispering gallery on you?

  As I walked through the door I stooped to greet Dean Martin, who bounced his way up the hall to me. His squished little face was so delighted at my return that it was hard to stay grumpy. I sat down on the hall floor and let him jump around me, snuffling to reach my face with his pink tongue until I was smiling again.

  "It's just me, Margot," I called.

  "Well, I hardly thought it was George Clooney," came the response. "More's the pity for me. How were the Stepford Wives? Has he converted you yet?"

  "It was a lovely afternoon, Margot," I lied. "Everyone was very nice."

  "That bad, huh? Would you mind fetching me a nice little vermouth if you happen to be passing the kitchen, dear?"

  "What the hell is vermouth?" I murmured to the dog, but he sat down to scratch one of his ears with his hind leg.

  "Have one yourself, if you like," she added. "I suspect you'll be in need of it."

  I was just climbing to my feet when my phone rang. I felt a momentary dismay--it would probably be Josh and I wasn't quite ready to talk to him, but when I checked the screen it was my home number. I pressed the phone to my ear.

  "Dad?"

  "Louisa? Oh, thank goodness."

  I checked my watch. "Is everything okay? It must be the middle of the night there."

  "Sweetheart, I've got bad news. It's your granddad."

  26

  In Memory of Albert John Compton, "Granddad"

  Funeral service:

  St. Mary and All Saints Parish Church, Stortfold Green

  23 April 12.30 p.m.

  All welcome for refreshments afterward at the Laughing Dog public house on Pinemouth Street

  No flowers, but any donations welcome to the Injured Jockeys Fund.

  "Our hearts are empty, but we are blessed to have loved you."

  Three days later I flew home in time for the funeral. I cooked Margot ten days' worth of meals, froze them, and left instructions with Ashok that he was to sneak up to her apartment at least once a day on a pretext and make sure that she was okay, or that if she wasn't, I wouldn't walk in a week later to a health hazard. I postponed one of her hospital appointments, made sure she had clean sheets, that Dean Martin had enough food, and paid Magda, a professional dog-walker, to come twice a day. I told Margot firmly that she was not to sack her on day one. I told the girls at the Vintage Clothes Emporium that I would be away. I saw Josh twice. I let him stroke my hair and tell me he was sorry and that he remembered how it felt to lose his own grandfather. It was only when I was finally on the plane that I realized the myriad ways I had made myself busy had been a way not to acknowledge the truth of what had just happened.

  Granddad was gone.

  Another stroke, Dad said. He and Mum had been sitting in the kitchen chatting while Granddad watched the racing and she had come in to ask if he wanted a top-up of tea and he had slipped away, so quietly and peacefully that fifteen minutes had passed before it had dawned on them that he wasn't just asleep.

  "He looked so relaxed, Lou," he said as we traveled back from the airport in his van. "His head was just on one side and his eyes were closed, like he was taking a nap. I mean, God love him, we none of us wanted to lose him, but that would be the way to go, wouldn't it? In your favorite chair in your own house with the old telly on. He didn't even have a bet on that race so it's not like he'd be headed up to the hereafter feeling gutted that he missed out on his winnings." He tried to smile.

  I felt numb. It was only when I followed Dad into our house and saw the empty chair that I was able to convince myself it was true. I would never see him again, never feel that curved old back under my fingertips as I hugged him, never again make him a cup of tea or interpret his silent words or joke with him about cheating at Sudoku.

  "Oh, Lou." Mum came down the corridor and pulled me to her.

  I hugged her, feeling her tears seep into my shoulder while Dad stood behind her patting her back and muttering, "There, there, love. You're all right. You're all rig
ht," as if saying it enough times would make it so.

  --

  Much as I loved Granddad I had sometimes wondered abstractly if when he finally went Mum would feel in some way freed from the responsibility of caring for him. Her life had been so firmly tied to his for so long that she had only ever been able to carve out little bits of time for herself; his last months of poor health had meant she could no longer even go to her beloved night classes.

  But I was wrong. She was bereft, permanently on the edge of tears. She berated herself for not having been in the room when he had gone, welled up at the sight of his belongings, and fretted constantly over whether she could have done more. She was restless, lost without someone to care for. She got up and she sat down, plumping cushions, checking a clock for some invisible appointment. When she was really unhappy she cleaned manically, wiping nonexistent dust from skirting and scrubbing floors until her knuckles were red and raw. In the evenings we sat around the kitchen table while Dad went to the pub--supposedly to sort the last of the arrangements for the funeral tea--and she tipped away the fourth cup she had made by accident for a man who was no longer there, then blurted out the questions that had haunted her since he had died.

  "What if I could have done something? What if we had taken him to the hospital for more tests? They might have been able to pick up on the risk of more strokes." Her hands twisted together over her handkerchief.

  "But you did all those things. You took him to millions of appointments."

  "Do you remember that time he ate two packets of chocolate Digestives? That might have been the thing that did it. Sugar's the devil's work now, by all accounts. I should have put them on a higher shelf. I shouldn't have let him eat those wretched cakes . . ."

  "He wasn't a child, Mum."

  "I should have made him eat his greens. But it was hard, you know? You can't spoon-feed an adult. Oh, Lord, no offense. I mean with Will, obviously, it was different . . ."

  I put my hand over hers and watched her face crumple. "Nobody could have loved him more, Mum. Nobody could have cared for Granddad better than you did."

  In truth, her grief made me uncomfortable. It was too close to a place I had been, and not that long ago. I was wary of her sadness, as if it were contagious, and found myself looking for excuses to stay away from her, trying to keep myself busy so that I didn't have to absorb it too.

  --

  That night, when Mum and Dad sat going over some paperwork from the solicitor, I went to Granddad's room. It was still just as he'd left it, the bed made, the copy of the Racing Post on the chair, two races for the following afternoon circled with blue pen.