by Jojo Moyes
An image of this alternative life swam before my eyes--me, dressed in a suit, headed to work each day in these vast glass offices. Louisa Clark, earning a big salary, living somewhere I could afford. A New Yorker. Not looking after anyone, for once, just pushing upward, the sky limitless above me. It would be a whole new life, a real shot at the American Dream.
I thought of my family's pride if I said yes.
I thought of a scruffy warehouse downtown, filled to the brim with other people's old clothes. "Mr. Gopnik, again, I'm very flattered. But I don't think so."
His expression hardened. "So you do want money."
I blinked.
"We live in a litigious society, Louisa. I am conscious that you hold highly sensitive information about my family. If it's a lump sum you're after, we'll talk about it. I can bring my lawyer into the discussion." He leaned over and put his finger on the intercom. "Diane, can you--"
It was at this point that I stood. I lowered Dean Martin gently to the floor. "Mr. Gopnik, I don't want your money. If I'd wanted to sue you or--or make money from your secrets--I would have done it weeks ago, when I was left without a job or anywhere to live. You've misjudged me now as you misjudged me back then. And I'd like to leave now."
He took his finger off the phone. "Please . . . sit. I didn't mean to offend you." He motioned to the chair. "Please, Louisa. I need to get this matter sorted out."
He didn't trust me. I saw now that Mr. Gopnik lived in a world where money and status were prized so far above everything else that it was inconceivable to him that somebody wouldn't try to extract some, given the opportunity.
"You want me to sign something," I said coolly.
"I want to know your price."
And then it occurred to me. Perhaps I did have one, after all.
I sat down again, and after a moment I told him, and for the first time in the nine months that we'd met, he looked properly surprised. "That's what you want?"
"That's what I want. I don't care how you do it."
He leaned back in his chair, and placed his hands behind his head. He looked off to the side, thinking for a moment, then turned back to me. "I rather wish you would come back and work for me, Louisa Clark," he said. And then he smiled, for the first time, and reached across the desk to shake my hand.
--
"Letter for you," said Ashok as I walked in. Mr. Gopnik had instructed that the car should bring me home and I had asked the driver to drop me two blocks away so that Dean Martin could stretch his legs. I was still shaking from the encounter. I felt lightheaded, elated, as if I were capable of anything. Ashok had to call twice before I registered what he'd said.
"For me?" I stared down at the address--I couldn't think who knew I was living at Mrs. De Witt's aside from my parents, and my mother always liked to e-mail me to tell me that she'd written me a letter just so I could keep a look out.
I ran upstairs, gave Dean Martin a drink, then sat down to open it. The handwriting was unfamiliar so I flicked the letter over. It was written on cheap copier paper, in black ink, and there were a couple of crossings-out, as if the writer had struggled with what he wanted to say.
Sam.
30
Dear Lou,
I wasn't entirely truthful when we last met. So I'm writing to you now, not because I think it will change anything but because I deceived you once and it's important to me that you never feel I did that again.
I'm not with Katie. I wasn't when I last saw you. I don't want to say too much but it became clear pretty quickly that we are very different people, and that I had made a huge mistake. If I'm honest, I think I knew it from the start. She has put in for a transfer and although they don't like it much at head office it looks like they'll go ahead with it.
I'm left feeling like a fool, and rightly so. Not a day goes by when I don't wish I'd just written you a few lines every day, like you asked, or sent the odd postcard. I should have hung on tighter. I should have told you what I felt when I felt it. I should have just tried a bit harder instead of throwing myself a pity party at the thought of all the people who had left me behind.
Like I said, I'm not writing to change your mind. I know you've moved on. I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry, and that I'll always regret what happened, and that I really hope you're happy (it's kind of hard to tell at a funeral).
Take care of yourself, Louisa.
Love always,
Sam
I felt giddy. Then I felt a bit sick. And then I gulped, swallowing a huge sob of an emotion I couldn't quite identify. And then I screwed the letter up in a ball and, with a roar, hurled it with force into the bin.
I sent Margot a picture of Dean Martin and wrote her a short letter updating her on his well-being, just to calm my nerves. I walked up and down the empty apartment and swore a bit. I poured myself a sherry from Margot's dusty drinks cabinet and drank it in three gulps, although it wasn't even lunchtime. And then I pulled the letter out of the bin, opened my laptop, sat on the hall floor with my back to Margot's front door so that I could use the Gopniks' WiFi, and e-mailed Sam.
--What kind of bullshit letter is that? Why would you send me that now? After all this time?
The answer came back within minutes, as if he had been sitting waiting at his computer.
--I get your anger. I'd probably be angry too. But Lily said you were thinking of getting married and the whole looking at apartments in Little Italy thing just made me think if I didn't tell you now it was going to be too late.
I stared at my screen, frowning. I reread what he'd written, twice. Then I typed:
--Lily told you that?
--Yes. And the thing about you thinking it was a bit soon and not wanting him to think you were doing it for the residency. But how his proposal made it impossible for you to say no.
I waited a few minutes, then I typed, carefully:
--Sam, what did she tell you about the proposal?
--That Josh had gone down on one knee at the top of the Empire State Building? And about the opera singer he hired?
Lou, don't be angry with her. I know I shouldn't have made her tell me. I know it's none of my business. But I just asked her how you were the other day. I wanted to know what was going on in your life. And then she kind of knocked me sideways with all this stuff. I told myself to just be glad you were happy. But I kept thinking: What if I had been that guy? What if I had--I don't know--seized the moment?
I closed my eyes.
--So you wrote to me because Lily told you I was about to get married?
--No. I wanted to write to you anyway. Have done since I saw you in Stortfold. I just didn't know what to say.
But then I figured once you were married--especially if you were getting married so quickly--it was going to be impossible for me to say anything afterward. Maybe that's old-fashioned of me.
Look, I basically just wanted you to know I was sorry, Lou. That's it. I'm sorry if this is inappropriate.
It took a while before I wrote again.
--Okay. Well, thanks for letting me know.
I shut the lid and leaned back against the front door and closed my eyes for a long time.
--
I decided not to think about it. I was quite good at not thinking about things. I did my household errands, and I took Dean Martin on his walks and I traveled to the East Village on the subway in the stifling heat and discussed square footage and partitions and leases and insurances with the girls. I did not think about Sam.
I did not think about him when I walked the dog past the vomitous ever-present garbage trucks, or dodged the honking UPS vans, or twisted my ankles on the cobbles of SoHo, or lugged suitcases of clothing through the turnstiles of the subway. I recited Margot's words and I did the thing I loved, which had now grown from a tiny germ of an idea into a huge oxygenated bubble, which inflated from the inside of me, steadily pushing out everything else.
I did not think about Sam.
--
His next letter arr
ived three days later. I recognized the handwriting this time, scrawled across an envelope that Ashok had pushed under my door.
So I thought about our e-mail exchange and I just wanted to talk to you about a couple more things. (You didn't say I couldn't so I hope you're not going to rip this up.)
Lou, I never knew you even wanted to get married. I feel stupid for not asking you about that now. And I didn't realize you were the kind of girl who secretly wanted big romantic gestures. But Lily has told me so much about what Josh does for you--the weekly roses, the fancy dinners and stuff--and I'm sitting here thinking . . . Was I really so static? How did I just sit there and expect that everything was going to be okay if I didn't even try?
Lou, did I get this so wrong? I just need to know if the whole time we were together you were waiting for me to make some grand gesture, if I misread you. If I did, I'm sorry, again.
It's kind of odd to have to think about yourself so much, especially if you're a bloke not massively prone to introspection. I like doing stuff, not thinking about it. But I guess I need to learn a lesson here and I'm asking you if you'd be kind enough to tell me.
I took one of Margot's faded notelets with the address at the top. I crossed out her name. And I wrote:
Sam, I never wanted anything grand from you. Nothing.
Louisa
I ran down the stairs, handed it to Ashok for posting and ran away again just as quickly, pretending I couldn't hear him asking if everything was okay.
--
The next letter arrived within days. Each was Express Delivery. It had to be costing him an absolute fortune.
You did, though. You wanted me to write. And I didn't do it. I was always too tired or, I'm being honest, I felt self-conscious. It didn't feel like I was talking to you, just chuntering away on paper. It felt fake.
And then the more I didn't do it, and the more you started adapting to your life there and changing, I felt like--well, what the hell do I have to tell her anyway? She's going to these fancy balls and country clubs and riding around in limousines and having the time of her life, and I'm riding around in an ambulance in east London, picking up drunks and lonely pensioners who have fallen out of bed.
Okay, I'm going to tell you something else now, Lou. And if you never want to hear from me again I will understand but now we're talking again I have to say it: I'm not glad for you. I don't think you should marry him. I know he's smart and handsome and rich and hires string quartets for when you're eating dinner on his roof terrace and stuff, but there's something there I don't trust. I don't think he's right for you.
Ah, crap. It's not even just about you. It's driving me nuts. I hate thinking of you with him. Even the thought of him with his arm around you makes me want to punch things. I don't sleep properly anymore because I've turned into this stupid jealous guy who has to train his mind to think about other stuff. And you know me--I sleep anywhere.
You are probably reading this now and thinking, Good, you dickhead, serves you right. And you'd be entitled.
Just don't rush into anything, okay? Make sure he really is all the things you deserve. Or, you know, don't marry him at all.
Sam
x
I didn't respond for a few days that time. I carried the letter around with me and I looked at it in the quiet moments at the Vintage Clothes Emporium and when I stopped for coffee in the dog-friendly diner near Columbus Circle. I reread it when I was getting into my sagging bed at night and thought about it when I was soaking in Margot's little salmon-colored bathtub.
And then, finally, I wrote back:
Dear Sam,
I'm not with Josh anymore. To use your phrase, we turned out to be very different people.
Lou
PS For what it's worth, the thought of a violinist hovering over me while I'm trying to eat makes my toes curl.
31
Dear Louisa,
So I had my first decent night's sleep in weeks. I found your letter when I got back from a night shift at six a.m. and I have to tell you it made me so bloody glad that I wanted to shout like a crazy person and do a dance, but I'm crap at dancing and I had nobody to talk to so I went and let the hens out and sat on the step and told them instead (they were not massively impressed. But what do they know?).
So can I write?
I have stuff to say now. I also have a really stupid grin on my face for about eighty percent of my working day. My new partner (Dave, forty-five, definitely not about to bring me French novels) says I'm scaring the patients.
Tell me what's going on with you. Are you okay? Are you sad? You didn't sound sad. Maybe I just want you not to be sad.
Talk to me.
Love,
Sam x
The letters arrived most days. Some were long and rambling, some just a couple of lines, a few scribbles, or a photo of him showing different parts of his now-completed house. Or hens. Sometimes the letters were long, exploratory, fervent.
We went too fast, Louisa Clark. Perhaps my injury accelerated it all. You can't play hard to get with someone after they've literally held your insides with their bare hands, after all. So maybe this is good. Maybe now we get to really talk to each other.
I was a mess after Christmas. I can tell you that now. I like to feel I've done the right thing. But I didn't do the right thing. I hurt you and it haunted me. There were so many nights when I just gave up on sleep and went to work on the house instead. I'd fully recommend behaving like an arse if you want to get a building project completed.
I think about my sister a lot. Mostly what she'd say to me. You don't have to have known her to imagine what she'd be calling me right now.
Day after day they came, sometimes two in twenty-four hours, sometimes supplemented by e-mail but most often just long, handwritten essays, windows into the inside of Sam's head and heart. Some days I almost didn't want to read them--afraid to renew an intimacy with the man who had so comprehensively broken my heart. On others I found myself running downstairs barefoot in the mornings, Dean Martin at my heels, standing in front of Ashok and bouncing on my toes as he flicked through the wedge of post on his desk. He would pretend there was nothing, then pull one from his jacket and hand it over with a smile as I bolted back upstairs to enjoy it in private.
I read them over and over, discovering with each one how little we had really known each other before I left, building a new picture of this quiet, complicated man. Sometimes his letters made me sad:
Really sorry. No time today. Lost two kids in a traffic accident. Just need to go to bed.
X
PS I hope your day was full of good things.
But mostly they did not. He talked of Jake and how Jake had told him that Lily was the only person who really understood how he felt, and how each week Sam would take Jake's dad on a walk along the canal path or make him help paint the walls of the new house just to try to get him to open up a bit (and to stop eating cake). He talked of the two hens he had lost to a fox, the carrots and beetroot that were growing in his vegetable patch. He told me how he had kicked his bike exhaust in desperation and fury on Christmas Day after he had left me at my parents' and hadn't had the dent repaired because it was a useful reminder of how miserable he had felt when we weren't talking. Every day he opened up a little more, and every day I felt I understood him a little better.
Did I tell you Lily stopped by today? I finally told her that you and I had been in touch and she went bright pink and coughed out a piece of gum. Seriously. I thought I was going to have to do the Heimlich on her.
I wrote back in the hours when I was neither working nor walking Dean Martin. I drew him little vignettes of my life, my careful cataloging and repairing of Margot's wardrobe, sending photographs of items that fitted me as if they had been made for me (he told me he pinned these up in his kitchen). I told him of how Margot's idea of the dress agency had taken root in my imagination and how I couldn't let it go. I told him of my other correspondence--spidery little cards from Margot,
still radiant with joy at her son's forgiveness, and from her daughter-in-law, Laynie, who sent me sweet flowered cards updating me on Margot's deteriorating condition and thanking me for bringing her husband some closure, expressing her sadness that it had taken so long for it to happen.
I told Sam how I had begun to look for apartments, how I had headed, with Dean Martin, into unfamiliar new neighborhoods--Jackson Heights, Queens; Park Slope, Brooklyn--one eye trying to assess the risk of being murdered in my bed, the other trying not to balk at the terrifying differential between square footage and cost.
I told him of my now weekly dinners with Ashok's family, how their casual insults and evident love for each other made me miss my own. I told him how my thoughts returned again and again to Granddad, far more so than when he was alive, and how Mum, freed from all responsibility, was still finding it impossible to stop grieving him. I told him how, despite spending more time by myself than I had in years, despite living in the vast, empty apartment, I felt, curiously, not lonely at all.
And, gradually, I let him know what it meant to me to have him in my life again, his voice in my ear in the small hours, the knowledge that I meant something to him. The sense of him as a physical presence, despite the miles that separated us.
Finally I told him I missed him. And realized almost as I pressed send that that really didn't solve anything at all.
--
Nathan and Ilaria came for dinner, Nathan bringing a clutch of beers and Ilaria a spicy pork-and-bean casserole that nobody had wanted. I had thought about how often Ilaria seemed to cook dishes that nobody wanted. The previous week she had brought over a prawn curry, which I distinctly remembered Agnes telling her never to serve again.
We sat with our bowls on our laps, side by side on Margot's sofa, mopping up the rich tomato sauce with chunks of cornbread and trying not to belch at each other as we talked over the television. Ilaria asked after Margot, crossing herself and shaking her head sadly when I told her of Laynie's updates. In turn she told me Agnes had banned Tabitha from the apartment, a cause of some stress for Mr. Gopnik, who had chosen to deal with this particular family fracture by spending even more time at work.