Still Me

by Jojo Moyes

  "To be fair, there's a lot going on at the office," said Nathan.

  "There's a lot going on across the corridor." Ilaria raised an eyebrow at me.

  "The puta has a daughter," she said quietly, when Nathan got up to visit the bathroom, wiping her hands on a napkin.

  "I know," I said.

  "She is coming to visit, with the puta's sister." She sniffed, picked at a loose thread on her trousers. "Poor child. It is not her fault she is coming to visit with a family of crazies."

  "You'll look out for her," I said. "You're good at that."

  "Color of that bathroom!" said Nathan, arriving back in the room. "I didn't think anyone did cloakroom suites in mint green. You know there's a bottle of body lotion in there dated 1974?"

  Ilaria raised her eyebrows and compressed her lips.

  Nathan left at a quarter past nine, and as the door closed behind him Ilaria lowered her voice, as if he could still hear, and told me he was dating a personal trainer from Bushwick who wanted him to visit at all hours of the day and night. Between the girl and Mr. Gopnik he barely had time to talk to anybody these days. What could you do?

  Nothing, I said. People were going to do what they were going to do.

  She nodded, as if I had imparted some great wisdom, and padded back down the corridor.

  --

  "Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure! Nadia, baby, take that through to Grandma, will you?" Meena stooped to give the child a small plastic cup of ice water. It was a sweltering evening and every window in Ashok and Meena's apartment was open. Despite the two fans that whirred lazily, the air was still stubbornly resistant to movement. We were preparing supper in the tiny kitchen and every motion seemed to make a bit of me stick to something.

  "Has Ashok ever hurt you?"

  Meena turned swiftly from the stove to face me.

  "Not physically, I mean. Just . . ."

  "My feelings? As in messing me around? Not too much, to be honest. He's not really built that way. He did once joke that I looked like a whale when I was forty-two weeks pregnant with Rachana, but after I got past the hormones and stuff I kind of had to agree with him. And, boy, did he pay for that one!" She let out a honking laugh at the memory, then reached into a cupboard for some rice. "Is this your guy in London again?"

  "He writes to me. Every day. But I . . ."

  "You what?"

  I shrugged. "I'm afraid. I loved him so much. And it was so awful when we split up. I guess I'm just afraid that if I let myself fall again I'll be setting myself up for more hurt. It's complicated."

  "It's always complicated." She wiped her hands on her apron. "That's life, Louisa. So show me."

  "What?"

  "The letters. Come on. Don't pretend you don't carry them around all day. Ashok says your whole face goes kinda mushy when he hands one over."

  "I thought doormen were meant to be discreet!"

  "That man has no secrets from me. You know that. We are highly invested in the twists and turns of your life down there." She laughed and held out her hand, waggling her fingers impatiently. I hesitated just a moment, then pulled the letters carefully from my handbag. And, oblivious to the comings and goings of her small children, to the muffled laughter of her mother at the television comedy next door, to the noise and the sweat and the rhythmic click-click-click of the overhead fan, Meena bent her head over my letters and read them.

  The strangest thing, Lou. So I've spent three years building this damn house. Obsessing over the right window frames and which kind of shower cubicle and whether to go with the white plastic power sockets or the polished nickel. And now it's done, or as done as it will ever be. And I sit here alone in my immaculate front room with the perfect shade of pale gray paint and the reconditioned wood-burner and the triple-pleat interlined curtains that my mum helped me choose, and I wonder, well, what was the bloody point? What did I build it for?

  I think I needed a distraction from the loss of my sister. I built a house so I didn't have to think. I built a house because I needed to believe in the future. But now it's done and I look around these empty rooms, I feel nothing. Maybe some pride that I actually finished the job but apart from that? Nothing at all.

  Meena stared at the last few lines for a long moment. Then she folded the letter, placed it carefully in the pile, and handed them back to me. "Oh, Louisa," she said, her head cocked to one side. "Come on, girl."

  1442 Lantern Drive

  Tuckahoe, NY 10707

  Dear Louisa,

  I hope you are well and that the apartment is not proving too troublesome. Frank says the contractors are coming to look around in two weeks--could you be there to let them in? We'll give you the firm details nearer the time.

  Margot isn't up to writing too much these days--she finds a lot of things tiring and those drugs do make her a little woozy--but I thought you'd like to know that she is being well cared for. We have decided, despite everything, we cannot bear to move her into the home so she will stay with us, with some help from the very kind medical staff. She still has plenty to say to Frank and me, oh, yes! She has us running around like headless chickens most days! I don't mind. I quite like having someone to look after, and on her good days it's lovely hearing all the stories of when Frank was a boy. I think he likes hearing them too, even though he won't admit as much. Two peas in a pod, those two!

  Margot asked me to ask you would you mind sending another picture of the dog? She did so like the other one you sent. Frank has put it in a lovely silver frame beside her bed and I know it is a great comfort to her as she spends so much time resting now. I can't say I find the little fellow quite as pleasing to look at as she plainly does, but each to her own.

  She sends you her love and says she hopes you're still wearing those gorgeous stripy pantyhose. I'm not sure if that's the pharmaceuticals talking, but I know she means well!

  With warmest wishes,

  Laynie G. Weber

  --

  "Did you hear?"

  I was headed out with Dean Martin to work. Summer had begun to assert its presence forcefully, every day warmer and more humid, so that the short walk to the subway left my shirt stuck to my lower back, and delivery boys exposed pale, sunburnt flesh on their bikes and swore at jaywalking tourists. But I was wearing my 1960s psychedelic dress that Sam had bought me and a pair of cork wedge shoes with pink flowers over the strap, and after the winter I'd had, the sun on my arms was like a balm.

  "Did I hear what?"

  "The library! It's been saved! Its future has been secured for the next ten years!" Ashok thrust his phone at me. I stopped on the carpet and lifted my sunglasses to read the text message from Meena. "I can't believe it. An anonymous donation in honor of some dead guy. The--hang on, I got it here." He scanned the message with a finger. "The William Traynor Memorial Library. But who cares who it is! Funding for ten years, Louisa! And the city council has agreed! Ten years! Oh, man. Meena is over the moon. She was so sure we'd lost it."

  I peered at the phone, then handed it back to him. "It's a nice thing, right?"

  "It's amazing! Who knew, Louisa? Huh? Who knew? One for the little people. Ohhh, yes!" Ashok's smile was enormous.

  I felt something rise inside me then, a feeling of joy and anticipation so great that it seemed as if the world had briefly stopped turning, like there was just me and the universe and a million good things that could happen if you only hung on in there.

  I looked down at Dean Martin, then back at the lobby. I waved to Ashok, adjusted my sunglasses and set off down Fifth Avenue, my own smile growing wider with every step.

  --

  I had only asked for five.

  32

  So, I guess at some point we have to talk about the fact that your year is nearly up. Do you have a date in mind to come home? I'm guessing you can't stay in the old woman's place forever.

  I've been thinking about your dress agency--Lou, you could use my house as a base if you wanted, got a lot of spare room here
, completely free. If you fancied it, you could stay too.

  If you think it's too soon for that but you don't want to disrupt your sister's life by moving back to the flat, you could have the railway carriage? This is not my preferred option, by the way, but you always loved it and there is something quite appealing in the thought of having you just across the garden . . .

  There is, of course, another option, which is that this is all too much and you don't want anything to do with me, but I don't much like that one. It's a crappy option. I hope you think so too.

  Thoughts?

  Sam x

  PS Picked up a couple who had been married fifty-six years tonight. He had breathing difficulties--nothing too serious--and she wouldn't let go of his hand. Fussed over him until they got to hospital. I don't usually notice these things but tonight? I don't know.

  I miss you, Louisa Clark.

  I walked the length of Fifth Avenue, with its clogged artery of traffic and its brightly colored tourists blocking the sidewalks, and I thought how lucky you might be to find not one but two extraordinary men to love--and what a fluke it was if they happened to love you back. I thought about how you're shaped so much by the people who surround you, and how careful you have to be in choosing them for this exact reason, and then I thought, despite all that, in the end maybe you have to lose them all in order to truly find yourself.

  I thought about Sam and a couple who had been married for fifty-six years, whom I would never meet, and his name in my head became the drumbeat of my footfall as I walked past the Rockefeller Plaza, past the gaudy glitz of Trump Tower, past St. Patrick's, past the huge glowing Uniqlo, with its dazzling pixelated screens, past Bryant Park, the vast and ornate New York Public Library with its vigilant masonry lions, the shops the hoardings the tourists the street vendors and rough sleepers--all the daily features of a life I loved in a city that he didn't inhabit, and yet, above the noise and the sirens and the blare of the horns, I realized he was there at every step.

  Sam.

  Sam.

  Sam.

  And then I thought about how it would feel to go home.

  28 October 2006

  Mum,

  In haste, but I'm coming back to England! I got the job with Rupe's firm, so I'll be handing in my notice tomorrow and no doubt headed out of the office with my belongings in a box minutes later--these Wall Street firms don't like to hang on to people out here if they think you might plunder the client lists.

  So, come the New Year, I'll be executive director in Mergers and Acquisitions back in London. Really looking forward to a new challenge. Thought I'd take a little break first--might do that month-long Patagonian trek I've been going on about--and then I'll have to find somewhere to live. If you get the chance, could you sign me up with some estate agents? Usual postcodes, very central, two/three beds. Underground parking for the bike if possible (yes, I know you hate me using it).

  Oh, and you'll like this. I met someone. Alicia Deware. She's actually English but she was out here visiting friends and I met her at a bloody awful dinner and we went out a few times before she had to head back to Notting Hill. Proper dating, not the New York kind. Early days but she's good fun. I'll be seeing a bit of her when I come back. Don't go looking at wedding hats just yet, though. You know me.

  So that's it! Give my love to Dad--tell him I'll be buying him a pint or two at the Royal Oak very soon.

  To new beginnings, eh?

  With love, your son

  Will x

  --

  I read and reread Will's letter, with its hints of a parallel universe, and what-might-have-been landed gently around me like falling snow. I read between the lines at the future that could have been his and Alicia's--or even his and mine. More than once William John Traynor had pushed the course of my life off its predetermined rails--not with a nudge but with an emphatic shove. By sending me his correspondence, Camilla Traynor had inadvertently ensured he did it again.

  To new beginnings, eh?

  I read his words once more, then folded the letter carefully back with the others and sat, thinking. Then I poured myself the last of Margot's vermouth, stared into space for a bit, sighed, walked to the front door with my laptop, sat on the floor and wrote:

  Dear Sam,

  I'm not ready.

  I know it's been almost a year and I originally said that was it--but here's the thing: I'm not ready to come home.

  All my life I've ended up looking after other people, fitting myself around what they need, what they wanted. I'm good at it. I do it before I even realize what I'm doing. I'd probably do it to you too. You have no idea how much right now I want to book a flight and just be with you.

  But these last couple of months something has happened to me--something that stops me doing just that.

  I'm opening my dress agency here. It's going to be called the Bee's Knees and it's going to be based at the corner of the Vintage Clothes Emporium and clients can buy from the girls or rent from me. We're pooling contacts, stumping up for some advertising, and I hope we'll help each other get business. I open my doors on Friday and I've been writing to everyone I can think of. Already we've had a whole lot of interest from film-production people and fashion magazines and even women who just want to hire something for fancy dress. (You would not believe the number of Mad Men themed parties in Manhattan.)

  It's going to be hard and I'm going to be broke, and when I'm home each night I pretty much fall asleep on my feet, but for the first time in my life, Sam, I wake up excited. I love meeting the customers and working out what is going to look good on them. I love stitching these beautiful old clothes to make them as good as new. I love the fact that every day I get to reimagine who I want to be.

  You once told me you'd wanted to be a paramedic from when you were a boy. Well, I've waited nearly thirty years to work out who I'm meant to be. This dream of mine might last a week or it might last a year, but every day I head down to the East Village with my holdalls full of clothes and my arms ache and I feel like I'll never be ready and, well, I just feel like singing.

  I think about your sister a lot. I think about Will too. When people we love die young it's a nudge, reminding us that we shouldn't take any of it for granted, that we have a duty to make the most of what we have. I feel like I finally get that.

  So here it is: I've never really asked anyone for anything. But if you love me, Sam, I want you to join me--at least while I see if I can make this thing happen. I've done some research and there's an exam you'd need to pass and apparently hiring in New York State is seasonal but they do need paramedics.

  You could rent out your house for an income, and we could get a little apartment in Queens, or maybe the cheaper reaches of Brooklyn, and every day we would wake up together and, well, nothing would make me happier. And I would do everything I could--in the hours that I'm not covered with dust and moths and stray sequins--to make you glad you were here with me.

  I guess I want it all.

  You only get one life, right?

  You once asked me if I wanted a grand gesture. Well, here it is: I'll be where your sister always wanted to be, the evening of 25 July at seven p.m. You know where to find me if the answer's yes. If not, I'll stand there for a while, take a long view, and just be glad that, even if it was only in this way, we found each other again.

  All my love always,

  Louisa xxx

  33

  I saw Agnes once more before I finally left the Lavery. I had staggered in with two armfuls of clothing that I was bringing home for repair, the plastic covers sticking uncomfortably to my skin in the heat. As I walked past the front desk, two dresses slid to the floor. Ashok leaped forward to pick them up for me and I struggled to keep hold of the rest.

  "You got your work cut out this evening," he said.

  "I certainly have. Getting this lot back on the subway was an absolute nightmare."

  "I can believe it. Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Gopnik. I'll just get those out of your way."<
br />
  I looked up as Ashok swept my dresses from the carpet with a fluid movement and took a step back to allow Agnes through unimpeded.

  I straightened as she passed, as far as I could with my armful of clothes. She was wearing a simple shift dress with a wide scoop neck, and flat pumps, and looked, as she always did, as if somehow the prevailing weather conditions--whether extreme heat or cold--simply didn't apply to her. She was holding the hand of a small girl, around four or five years old, in a pinafore dress, who slowed to peer up at the brightly colored garments I was holding in front of me. She had honey-blond hair, which tapered to fine curls, combed back neatly into two velvet bows, and her mother's slanting eyes, and as she looked at me she allowed herself a small, mischievous smile at my predicament.

  I couldn't help but grin back, and as I did, Agnes turned to see what the child was looking at and our eyes locked. I froze briefly, made to straighten my face, but before I could, the corners of her mouth twitched, like her daughter's, almost as if she couldn't help herself. She nodded at me, a gesture so small that it's possible only I could have seen it. And then she stepped through the door that Ashok was holding back, the child already breaking into a skip, and they were gone, swallowed by the sunlight and the ever-moving human traffic of Fifth Avenue.

  34

  From: MrandMrsBernardClark@yahoo.com

  To: BusyBee@gmail.com

  Dear Lou,

  Well, I had to read that twice just to check I'd got it right. I looked at the girl in those newspaper pictures and I thought can this possibly be my little girl in an actual New York newspaper?

  Those are wonderful pictures of you with all your dresses, and you look so gorgeous dressed up with your friends. Did I tell you how proud Daddy and I are? We've cut out the ones from the free-sheet and Daddy has screen-shotted all the ones we could find on the internet (did I tell you he's started a computer course at the adult education center? He'll be Stortfold's Bill Gates next). We're sending you all our love and I know you'll make a success of it, Lou. You sounded so upbeat and bold on the telephone--when you rang off I sat there staring at the phone and I couldn't believe this was my little girl, full of plans, calling from her own business across the Atlantic. (It is the Atlantic, isn't it? I always get it mixed up with the Pacific.)