Still Me

by Jojo Moyes

  The dog gazed back at her, rapt.

  "You really are the most handsome boy." Her voice cracked on the last word.

  The dog licked her palm and she stepped forward and kissed his wrinkled forehead, her eyes closing and her lips pressed to him just a moment too long so that his wonky eyes bulged and his paws paddled against her. Her face sagged momentarily.

  "I--I could bring him to see you."

  She kept her face to his, her eyes shut, oblivious to the noise and the traffic and the people around her.

  "Did you hear what I said, Margot? I mean once you're settled we could get the train out and--"

  She straightened up and opened her eyes, glancing down for a moment.

  "No. Thank you."

  Before I could say anything else, she turned away. "Now, take him for a walk, please, dear. I don't want him to see me go."

  Her son had climbed out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, waiting. He offered her a hand but she waved him away. I thought I saw her blink back tears, but it was hard to tell as my own eyes seemed to be streaming.

  "Thank you, Margot," I called. "For everything."

  She shook her head, her lips set. "Now go. Please, dear." She turned toward the car just as her son approached, his hand outstretched toward her, and I don't know what she did next because I put Dean Martin on the sidewalk as she had told me and walked briskly toward Central Park, my head down, ignoring the stares of the curious people wondering why a girl in glittery hot pants and a purple silk bomber jacket was crying openly at eleven o'clock in the morning.

  --

  I walked for as long as Dean Martin's little legs could stand. And then when he stopped, mutinously, near the Azalea Pond, his tiny pink tongue hanging out and one eye drooping slightly, I picked him up and carried him, my eyes swollen with tears, my chest one breath away from another racking sob.

  I have never really been an animal person. But I suddenly understood what comfort could be gained from burying your face in the soft pelt of another creature, the consolation of the many small tasks that you're obliged to perform for its welfare.

  "Mrs. De Witt off on vacation?" Ashok was behind his desk as I entered, my head down and my blue plastic sunglasses on.

  I didn't have the energy to tell him just yet. "Yup."

  "She never told me to cancel her papers. I'd better get on to it." He shook his head, reaching for a ledger. "Know when she's coming home?"

  "Let me get back to you."

  I walked upstairs slowly, the little dog not moving in my arms, as if he were afraid that if he did he might be asked to use his legs again. And then I let myself into the apartment.

  It was dead silent, already shot through with her absence in a way it had never been when she was in the hospital, dust motes settling in the still, warm air. In a matter of months, I thought, somebody else would live here, tearing off the 1960s wallpaper, scrapping the smoked-glass furniture. It would be transformed, redesigned, a bolthole for busy executives or a terrifyingly wealthy family with small children. The thought of it made me feel hollow inside.

  I gave Dean Martin some water and a handful of kibble as a treat, then made my way slowly through the apartment, with its clothes and its hats and its walls of memories, and told myself not to think about the sad things but about the delight on the old woman's face at the prospect of living out her days with her only child. It was a joy that had been transformative, lifting her tired features and making her eyes shine. It made me wonder how much all this stuff, all this memorabilia, had been her way of insulating herself from the lengthy pain of his absence.

  Margot De Witt, style queen, fashion editor extraordinaire, woman ahead of her time, had built a wall, a lovely, gaudy, multicolored wall, to tell herself it had all been for something. And the moment he had returned to her she had demolished it without a backward glance.

  --

  Sometime later, when my tears had slowed to intermittent hiccups, I picked the first envelope off the table and opened it. It was written in Margot's beautiful, looping script, a remnant of an age when children were judged by their penmanship. As promised, it contained details of the little dog's preferred diet, times of eating, veterinary needs, vaccinations, flea-prevention and worming schedules. It told me where to find his various winter coats--there were different ones for rain, wind, and snow--and his favorite brand of shampoo. He would also require his teeth descaling, his ears cleaning, and--I winced--his anal glands emptying.

  "She didn't tell me that when she asked me to take you on," I said to him, and he lifted his head, groaned, and lowered it again.

  Further on, she gave details of where any post should be forwarded, the contact details for the packing company--the items they were not to take were to remain in her bedroom and I should write a note and pin it to the door to tell them not to enter. All the furniture, the lamps, the curtains could go. Her son's and daughter-in-law's cards were in the envelope, should I wish to reach them for further clarification.

  And now to the important things. Louisa, I didn't thank you in person for finding Vincent--the act of civil disobedience that has brought me so much unexpected happiness--but I'd like to thank you now. And for looking after Dean Martin. There are few people I would trust to do as I ask, and love him as I do, but you are one of them.

  Louisa, you are a treasure. You were always too discreet to tell me the details but do not let whatever happened with that foolish family next door dim your light. You are a courageous, gorgeous, tremendously kind little creature and I shall be forever grateful that their loss has been my gain. Thank you.

  It is in the spirit of thanks that I'd like to offer you my wardrobe. To anyone else--except perhaps your rather mercenary friends at that disgusting clothes store--this would be junk. I am well aware of that. But you see my clothes for what they are. Do with them what you want--keep some, sell some, whatever. But I know you will take pleasure in them.

  Here are my thoughts--though I'm well aware nobody really wants the thoughts of an old woman. Set up your own agency. Hire them out, or sell them. Those girls seemed to think there was money in it--well, it strikes me that this would be the perfect career for you. There should be enough there for you to start some sort of enterprise. Though, of course, you may have other ideas for your future, far better ones. Will you let me know what you decide?

  Anyway, dear roommate, I will look forward to receiving news. Please kiss that little dog for me. I miss him so terribly already.

  With fondest regards,

  Margot

  I put down the letter and sat motionless in the kitchen for a while, then walked through to Margot's bedroom and the dressing room beyond it, surveying the bulging racks, outfit after outfit.

  A clothes agency? I knew nothing about business, nothing about premises or accounts or dealing with the public. I was living in a city whose rules I didn't entirely understand, with no permanent address, and I had failed in pretty much every job I had ever held. Why on earth would Margot believe that I could set up a whole new enterprise?

  I ran my fingers down a midnight blue velvet sleeve, then pulled out the garment: Halston, a jumpsuit, slashed almost to the waist, with a mesh insert. I put it back carefully and took out a dress--white broderie anglaise, its skirts a mass of ruffles. I walked along that first rail, stunned, daunted. I had only just begun to absorb the responsibility of owning a dog. What was I supposed to do with three rooms full of clothes?

  That night I sat in Margot's apartment and turned on Wheel of Fortune. I ate the remains of a chicken I had roasted for her last dinner (I suspect she had sneaked most of hers under the table to the dog). I didn't hear what Vanna White said, or shout out letters at the Mystery Wedges. I sat and I thought about what Margot had said to me and wondered about the person she had seen.

  Who was Louisa Clark, anyway?

  I was a daughter, a sister, a kind of surrogate mother for a time. I was a woman who cared for others but who seemed to have little idea, even now, how to
care for herself. As the glittering wheel spun in front of me, I tried to think about what I really wanted, rather than what everyone else seemed to want for me. I thought about what Will had really been telling me--not to live some vicarious idea of a full life but to live my own dream. The problem was, I don't think I'd ever really worked out what that dream was.

  I thought of Agnes across the corridor, a woman trying to convince everyone that she could shoehorn herself into a new life while some fundamental part of her refused to stop mourning the role she had left behind. I thought of my sister, her newfound contentment once she had taken the step of understanding who she really was. The way she had stepped so easily into love once she allowed herself to do so. I thought of my mother, a woman so molded by looking after other people that she no longer knew what to do when she was freed.

  I thought of the three men I had loved, and how each of them had changed me, or tried to. Will had left himself indubitably imprinted on me. I had seen everything through the prism of what he had wanted for me. I would have changed for you too, Will. And now I understand--you probably knew that all along.

  Live boldly, Clark.

  "Good luck!" shouted the Wheel of Fortune host, and spun again.

  And I realized what I really wanted to do.

  --

  I spent the next three days collating Margot's wardrobe, sorting the clothing into different sections: six different decades, and within those, daywear, evening wear, special occasion. I took out everything that needed repairing in any small way--buttons missing, gaps in lace, tiny holes--marveling at how she had managed to avoid moths, and how many seams were not stretched, still perfectly aligned. I held pieces up against myself, tried things on, lifting off plastic covers, and letting out little noises of delight and awe that made Dean Martin prick up his ears, then walk away in disgust. I went to the public library and spent half a day looking up everything to do with starting a small business, tax requirements, grants, paperwork, and printed out a file that grew day by day. Then I took a trip to the Vintage Clothes Emporium with Dean Martin and sat down with the girls to ask the best places to get delicate items dry-cleaned, and the names of the best haberdashers to find silk lining fabric for repair.

  They were agog at the news of Margot's gift. "We could take the whole lot off you," said Lydia, blowing a smoke ring upward. "I mean, for something like that we could get a bank loan. Right? We'd give you a good price. Enough for a deposit on a really nice rental! We've had a lot of interest from this television company in Germany. They've got a twenty-four-episode multigenerational series that they want to--"

  "Thanks, but I haven't decided what I want to do with it all yet," I said, trying not to notice their faces fall. I already felt a little protective about those clothes. I leaned forward over the counter. "But I have had another idea . . ."

  --

  The following morning I was trying on a 1970 green "Judy" Ossie Clark trouser suit, checking for rotting seams or tiny holes, when the doorbell rang. "Hold on, Ashok. Hold on! Let me just grab the dog," I called, scooping him up as he barked furiously at the door.

  Michael stood in front of me.

  "Hello," I said, coldly, when I had recovered from the shock. "Is there a problem?"

  He struggled not to raise an eyebrow at my outfit. "Mr. Gopnik would like to see you."

  "I'm here legitimately. Mrs. De Witt invited me to stay on."

  "It's not about that. I don't know what it is, to tell you the truth. But he wants to talk to you about something."

  "I don't really want to talk to him, Michael. But thanks anyway." I made to close the door but he put his foot in it, stopping me. I looked down at it. Dean Martin let out a low growl.

  "Louisa. You know what he's like. He said I wasn't to leave until you agreed."

  "Tell him to walk down the corridor himself then. It's hardly far."

  He lowered his voice. "He doesn't want to see you here. He wants to see you in his office. In private." He looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable, as someone might, who had professed they were your best friend, then dropped you like a hot stone.

  "Tell him I might come by later this morning then. When Dean Martin and I have had our walk."

  Still he didn't move.

  "What?"

  He looked almost pleading. "The car is waiting outside."

  --

  I brought Dean Martin. He was a useful distraction from my vague sense of anxiety. Michael sat beside me in the limousine and Dean Martin glared at him and at the back of the driver's seat simultaneously. I sat in silence, wondering what on earth Mr. Gopnik was going to do now. If he had decided to press charges surely he would have sent the police, rather than his car. Had he waited deliberately until Margot had gone? Had he uncovered other things I was about to be blamed for? I thought of Steven Lipkott and the pregnancy test and wondered what my response would be if he asked point blank what I knew. Will had always said I had the worst poker face. I practiced in my head, I know nothing, until Michael shot me a sharp look and I realized I'd started saying it out loud.

  We were discharged in front of a huge glass building. Michael walked briskly through the cavernous, marble-clad lobby, but I refused to hurry and instead let Dean Martin amble along at his own pace even though I could tell it infuriated Michael. He collected a pass from security, handed it to me, then directed me toward a separate lift near the back of the lobby--Mr. Gopnik was plainly too important to travel up and down with the rest of his staff.

  We went up to the forty-sixth floor, traveling at a speed that made my eyes bulge almost as much as Dean Martin's, and I tried to hide the slight wobble in my legs as I stepped out into the hushed silence of the offices. A secretary, immaculately dressed in a tailored suit and spike heels, did a double take at me--I guessed they didn't get too many people dressed in 1970s emerald Ossie Clark trouser suits with red satin trim, clutching furious small dogs. I followed Michael along a corridor to another office, in which sat another woman, also immaculately dressed in her office uniform.

  "I have Miss Clark to see Mr. Gopnik, Diane," he said.

  She nodded, and lifted a phone, murmuring something into it. "He'll see you now," she said with a small smile.

  Michael pointed me toward the door. "Do you want me to take the dog?" he said. He was plainly desperate for me not to take the dog.

  "No. Thank you," I said, holding Dean Martin a little tighter to me.

  The door opened and there stood Leonard Gopnik in his shirtsleeves.

  --

  "Thank you for agreeing to see me," he said, closing the door behind him. He gestured toward a seat on the other side of the desk and walked slowly around it. I noticed his limp was pronounced and wondered what Nathan was doing with him. He always was too discreet to discuss it.

  I said nothing.

  He sat down heavily in his chair. He looked tired, I noticed, the expensive tan unable to hide the shadows under his eyes, the strain lines at their edges.

  "You're taking your duties very seriously," he said, gesturing at the dog.

  "I always do," I said, and he nodded, as if that were a fair comeback.

  Then he leaned forward over the desk and steepled his fingers. "I'm not someone, Louisa, used to finding myself lost for words, but . . . I confess I am right now. I discovered something two days ago. Something which has left me rather shaken."

  He looked up at me. I looked steadily back at him, my expression a study in neutrality.

  "My daughter Tabitha had become . . . suspicious about some things she'd heard and put a private investigator on the case. This is not something I'm particularly happy about--we are not, as a family, prone to investigating each other. But when she told me what the gentleman had found, it was not something I could ignore. I talked to Agnes about it and she has told me everything."

  I waited.

  "The child."

  "Oh," I said.

  He sighed. "During these rather . . . extensive discussions, she also explained abo
ut the piano, the money for which, I understand, you were under instruction to remove in increments, day by day, from a nearby ATM."

  "Yes, Mr. Gopnik," I said.

  He lowered his head as if he had hoped against hope that I might dispute the facts, tell him it was all nonsense, that the private investigator was talking rubbish.

  Finally he sat back heavily in his chair. "We appear to have done you a great wrong, Louisa."

  "I'm not a thief, Mr. Gopnik."

  "Obviously. And yet, out of loyalty to my wife, you were prepared to let me believe you were."

  I wasn't sure if it was a criticism. "I didn't feel like I had a choice."

  "Oh, you did. You absolutely did."

  We sat in the cool office in silence for a few moments. He tapped on his desk with his fingers.

  "Louisa, I have spent much of the night trying to figure out how I can put this situation right. And I'd like to make you an offer."

  I waited.

  "I'd like to give you your job back. You will, of course, receive better terms--longer holidays, a pay raise, significantly improved benefits. If you would rather not live on site, we can arrange accommodation nearby."

  "A job?"

  "Agnes hasn't found anyone she likes half as much as she liked you. You have more than proven yourself, and I'm immensely grateful for your . . . loyalty and your continued discretion. The girl we took on after you has been . . . well, she's not up to it. Agnes doesn't like her. She considered you more of . . . of a friend."

  I looked down at the dog. He looked up at me. He seemed distinctly unimpressed. "Mr. Gopnik, that's very flattering but I don't think I would feel comfortable working as Agnes's assistant now."

  "There are other positions, positions within my organization. I understand that you do not have another job yet."

  "Who told you that?"

  "There's not a lot goes on in my building that I don't know about, Louisa. Usually, at least." He allowed himself a wry smile. "Look, we have openings in our marketing and administrative departments. I could ask Human Resources to bypass certain entry requirements and we could offer you training. Or I would be prepared to create a position in my philanthropic arm if you felt that was something you were interested in. What do you say?" He sat back, one arm on his desk, his ebonized pen loose in his hand.