Still Me Read online

  I hesitated. "Just . . . here and there. You know what she's like." I switched on the kettle.

  "You okay?"

  "I'm fine."

  I could feel his gaze on me until I turned and forced a smile. Then he clapped me on the back and turned to head out. "Some days, eh?"

  Some days, indeed. I stared at the kitchen worktop. I didn't know what to say to him. I didn't know how to explain the two and a half hours Garry and I had waited in the car for her, my eyes flicking repeatedly up to the light at the obscured window and back to my phone. After an hour Garry, bored of his language tapes, had texted Agnes to say he was being moved on by a parking attendant and she should text him as soon as she needed to go, but she didn't respond. We drove around the block and he filled the car with fuel, then suggested we get a coffee. "She didn't say how long she'd be. That usually means she'll be a coupla hours at least."

  "This has happened before?"

  "Mrs. G does as she pleases."

  He bought me a coffee in a near-empty diner, where the laminated menu showed poorly lit photographs of every single dish, and we sat in silence, each monitoring our phones, in case she called, and watching the Williamsburg dusk turn gradually to a neon-lit night. I had moved to the most exciting city on earth, yet some days I felt my life had shrunk: limo to apartment; apartment back to limo.

  "So have you worked for the Gopniks for long?"

  Garry slowly stirred two sugars into his coffee, screwing up the wrappers in a fat fist. "Year and a half."

  "Who did you work for before?"

  "Someone else."

  I took a sip of my coffee, which was surprisingly good. "You never mind it?"

  He looked up at me from under heavy brows.

  "All the hanging around?" I clarified. "I mean--does she do this often?"

  He kept stirring his coffee, his eyes back on his mug. "Kid," he said, after a minute. "I don't mean to be rude. But I can see you ain't been in this business long, and you'll last a whole lot longer if you don't ask questions." He sat back in his chair, his bulk spreading gently across his lap. "I'm the driver. I'm there when they need me. I speak when I'm spoken to. I see nothing, hear nothing, forget everything. That's why I've stayed in this game thirty-two years, and how I've put two ungrateful kids through college. In two and a half years, I take early retirement and move to my beach property in Costa Rica. That's how you do it." He wiped his nose with a paper napkin, making his jowls judder. "You get me?"

  "See nothing, hear nothing . . ."

  ". . . forget everything. You got it. You want a doughnut? They do good doughnuts here. Make 'em fresh throughout the day." He got up and moved heavily over to the counter. When he came back he said nothing more to me, just nodded, satisfied, when I told him that, yes, the doughnuts were very good indeed.

  --

  Agnes said nothing when she rejoined us. After a few minutes, she asked, "Did Leonard call? I accidentally turn my phone off."

  "No."

  "He must be at the office. I will call him." She straightened her hair, then settled back in her seat. "That was very good lesson. I really feel like I'm learning many things. Steven is very good artist," she announced.

  It took me until we were halfway home to notice she wasn't carrying any drawings.

  11

  Dear Thom,

  I'm sending you a baseball cap because Nathan and I went to a real-life baseball game yesterday and all the players wore them (actually they wore helmets but this is the traditional version). I got one for you and one for someone else I know. Get your mum to take a picture of you in it and I can put it on my wall!

  No, I'm afraid there aren't any cowboys in this part of America sadly--but today I am going to a country club so I will keep an eye out in case one rides by.

  Thank you for the very nice picture of my bum-bum with my imaginary dog. I hadn't realized my backside was that shade of purple underneath my trousers, but I shall bear that in mind if I ever decide to walk naked past the Statue of Liberty like in your picture.

  I think your version of New York may be even more exciting than the real thing.

  Lots of love,

  Auntie Lou xxx

  Grand Pines Country Club sprawled across acres of lush countryside, its trees and fields rolling so perfectly and in such a vivid shade of green they might have sprung from the imagination of a seven-year-old with crayons.

  On a crisp, clear day Garry drove us slowly up the long drive, and when the car pulled up in front of the sprawling white building, a young man in a pale blue uniform stepped forward and opened Agnes's door.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Gopnik. How are you today?"

  "Very good, thank you, Randy. And how are you?"

  "Couldn't be better, ma'am. Getting busy in there already. Big day!"

  Mr. Gopnik having been detained at work, it had fallen to Agnes to present Mary, one of the long-serving staff at his country club, with a retirement gift. Agnes had made her feelings clear for much of the week about having to do this. She hated the country club. The former Mrs. Gopnik's cronies would be there. And Agnes hated speaking in public. She could not do it without Leonard. But, for once, he was immovable. It will help you claim your place, darling. And Louisa will be with you.

  We practiced her speech and we made a plan. We would arrive in the Great Room as late as possible, at the last moment before the starters were served so that we could sit down with apologies, blaming Manhattan traffic. Mary Lander, the retiree in question, would stand after the coffee at two p.m., and a few people would say nice words about her. Then Agnes would stand, apologize for Mr. Gopnik's unavoidable absence, and say a few more nice words about Mary before handing over her retirement gift. We would wait a diplomatic half-hour longer then leave, pleading important business in the city.

  "You think this dress is okay?" She was wearing an unusually conservative two-piece: a shift dress in fuchsia with a paler short-sleeved jacket and a string of pearls. Not her usual look, but I understood that she needed to feel as if she was wearing armor.

  "Perfect." She took a breath and I nudged her, smiling. She took my hand briefly and squeezed it.

  "In and out," I said. "Nothing to it."

  "Two giant fingers," she murmured, and gave me a small smile.

  The building itself was sprawling and light, painted magnolia, with huge vases of flowers and reproduction antique furniture everywhere. Its oak-paneled halls, its portraits of founders on the walls, and silent staff moving from room to room were accompanied by the gentle hush of quiet conversation, the occasional clink of a coffee cup or glass. Every view was beautiful, every need seemingly already met.

  The Great Room was full, sixty or so round, elegantly decorated tables, filled with well-dressed women, chatting over glasses of still mineral water or fruit punch. Hair was uniformly perfectly blow-dried, and the preferred mode of dress was expensively elegant--well-cut dresses with boucle jackets, or carefully matched separates. The air was thick with a heady mix of perfume. At some tables a solitary man sat flanked by women, but they seemed oddly neutered in such a largely female room.

  To the casual observer--or perhaps an average man--almost nothing would have seemed amiss. A faint movement of heads, a subtle dip in the noise level as we passed, the slight pursing of lips. I walked behind Agnes, and she faltered suddenly, so that I almost collided with her back. And then I saw the table setting: Tabitha, a young man, an older man, two women I did not recognize, and, beside me, an older woman who lifted her head and looked Agnes square in the eye. As the waiter stepped forward and pulled out her seat, Agnes was seated opposite the Big Purple herself, Kathryn Gopnik.

  "Good afternoon," Agnes said, offering it up to the table as a whole and managing not to look at the first Mrs. Gopnik as she did so.

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Gopnik," the man who was seated on my side of the table replied.

  "Mr. Henry," said Agnes, her smile wavering. "Tab. You didn't say you were coming today."

  "I'm not
sure we have to inform you of all our movements, do we, Agnes?" Tabitha said.

  "And who might you be?" The elderly gentleman on my right turned to me. I was about to say I was Agnes's friend from London, but realized that was now going to be impossible. "I'm Louisa," I said. "Louisa Clark."

  "Emmett Henry," he said, holding out a gnarled hand. "Delighted to meet you. Is that an English accent?"

  "It is." I looked up to thank a waitress who was pouring me some water.

  "How very delightful. And are you over visiting?"

  "Louisa works as Agnes's assistant, Emmett." Tabitha's voice lifted across the table. "Agnes has developed the most extraordinary habit of bringing her staff to social occasions."

  My cheeks flooded with color. I felt the burn of Kathryn Gopnik's scrutiny, along with the eyes of the rest of the table.

  Emmett considered this. "Well, you know, my Dora took her nurse Libby with her absolutely everywhere for the last ten years. Restaurants, the theater, wherever we went. She used to say old Libby was a better conversationalist than I was." He patted my hand and chuckled, and several other people at the table joined in obligingly. "I dare say she was right."

  And, just like that, I was saved from social ignominy by an eighty-six-year-old man. Emmett Henry chatted to me through the shrimp starter, telling me about his long association with the country club, his years as a lawyer in Manhattan, his retirement to a senior citizens' facility a short distance away.

  "I come here every day, you know. It keeps me active, and there are always people to talk to. It's my home away from home."

  "It's beautiful," I said, peering behind me. Several heads immediately turned away. "I can see why you'd want to come." Agnes seemed outwardly composed but I could detect a slight tremor to her hands.

  "Oh, this is a very historic building, dear." Emmett was gesturing to the side of the room where a plaque stood. "It dates from"--he paused to ensure I had the full impact, then pronounced carefully--"1937."

  I didn't like to tell him that in our street in England we had council housing older than that. I think Mum might even have had a pair of tights older than that. I nodded, smiled, ate my chicken with wild mushrooms and wondered if there was any way I could move closer to Agnes, who was clearly miserable.

  The meal dragged. Emmett told me endless tales of the club, and amusing things said and done by people I had never heard of, and occasionally Agnes looked up and I smiled at her, but I could see her sinking. Glances flickered surreptitiously toward our table and heads dipped toward heads. The two Mrs. Gopniks sitting inches away from each other! Can you imagine! After the main course, I excused myself from my seat.

  "Agnes, would you mind showing me where the Ladies is?" I said. I figured even ten minutes away from this room would help.

  Before she could answer, Kathryn Gopnik placed her napkin on the table and turned to me. "I'll show you, dear. I'm headed that way." She picked up her handbag and stood beside me, waiting. I glanced at Agnes, but she didn't move.

  Agnes nodded. "You go. I'll--finish my chicken," she said.

  I followed Mrs. Gopnik through the tables of the Great Room and out into the hallway, my mind racing. We walked along a carpeted corridor, me a few paces behind her, and stopped at the Ladies. She opened the mahogany door and stood back, allowing me in before her.

  "Thank you," I muttered, and headed into a cubicle. I didn't even want to wee. I sat on the seat: if I stayed there long enough she might leave before I came out, but when I emerged she was at the basins, touching up her lipstick. Her gaze slid toward me as I washed my hands.

  "So you live in my old home," she said.

  "Yes." There didn't seem much point in lying about it.

  She pursed her lips, then, satisfied, closed her lipstick. "This must all feel rather awkward for you."

  "I just do my job."

  "Mm." She took out a small hairbrush and dragged it lightly over her hair. I wondered if it would be rude to leave, or if etiquette said I should also return to the table with her. I dried my hands and leaned toward the mirror, checking under my eyes for smudges and taking as much time as possible.

  "How is my husband?"

  I blinked.

  "Leonard. How is he? Surely you're not betraying any great confidence by telling me that." Her reflection looked out at me.

  "I . . . I don't see him much. But he seems fine."

  "I was wondering why he wasn't here. Whether his arthritis had flared up again."

  "Oh. No. I think he has a work thing today."

  "A 'work thing.' Well. I suppose that's good news." She placed her hairbrush carefully back in her bag and pulled out a powder compact. She patted her nose once, twice, on each side, before closing it. I was running out of things to do. I rummaged in my bag, trying to remember if I had brought a powder compact with me. And then Mrs. Gopnik turned to face me. "Is he happy?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "It's a straightforward question."

  My heart bumped awkwardly against my ribcage.

  Her voice was mellifluous, even. "Tab won't talk to me about him. She's quite angry at her father still, though she loves him desperately. Always was a daddy's girl. So I don't think it's possible for her to paint an accurate picture."

  "Mrs. Gopnik, with respect, I really don't think it's my place to--"

  She turned her head away. "No. I suppose not." She placed her compact carefully in her handbag. "I'm pretty sure I can guess what you've been told about me, Miss . . . ?"

  "Clark."

  "Miss Clark. And I'm sure you're also aware that life is rarely black-and-white."

  "I do." I swallowed. "I also know Agnes is a good person. Smart. Kind. Cultured. And not a gold digger. As you say, these things are rarely clear-cut."

  Her eyes met mine in the glass. We stood for a few seconds longer, then she closed her handbag and, after a last glance at her reflection, she gave a tight smile. "I'm glad Leonard is well."

  We returned to the table just as the plates were being cleared. She said not another word to me for the rest of the afternoon.

  --

  The desserts were served alongside the coffee, the conversation ebbed, and lunch dragged to a close. Several elderly ladies were helped to the Ladies, their walkers extricated with gentle commotions from chair legs as they went. The man in the suit stood on the small podium at the front, sweating gently into his collar, thanked everybody for coming, then said a few words about upcoming events at the club, including a charity night in two weeks, which was apparently sold out (a round of applause greeted this news). Finally, he said, they had an announcement to make, and nodded toward our table.

  Agnes let out a breath and stood, the room's eyes upon her. She walked to the podium, taking the manager's place at the microphone. As she waited, he brought an older African American woman in a dark suit to the front of the room. The woman fluttered her hands as if everyone were making an unnecessary fuss. Agnes smiled at her, took a deep breath, as I had instructed her, then laid her two small cards carefully on the stand, and began to speak, her voice clear and deliberate.

  "Good afternoon, everybody. Thank you for coming today, and thank you to all the staff for such a delicious lunch."

  Her voice was perfectly modulated, the words polished like stones over hours of practice the previous week. There was an approving murmur. I glanced at Mrs. Gopnik, whose expression was unreadable.

  "As many of you know, this is Mary Lander's last day at the club. We would like to wish her a very happy retirement. Leonard wishes me to tell you, Mary, he is so very sorry not to be able to come today. He appreciates everything you have done for the club and he knows that everyone else here does too." She paused, as I had instructed her. The room was silent, the women's faces attentive. "Mary started here at Grand Pines in 1967 as a kitchen attendant and rose up to become assistant house manager. Everybody here has very much enjoyed your company and your hard work over the years, Mary, and we will all miss you very much. We--and the other me
mbers of this club--would like to offer you a small token of our appreciation and we sincerely hope that your retirement is most enjoyable."

  There was a polite round of applause and Agnes was handed a glass sculpture of a scroll, with Mary's name engraved on it. She handed it to the older woman, smiling, and stood still as some people took pictures. Then she moved to the edge of the platform and returned to our table, her face flashing relief as she was allowed to leave the limelight. I watched as Mary smiled for more pictures, this time with the manager. I was about to lean over to Agnes to congratulate her when Kathryn Gopnik stood.

  "Actually," she said, her voice cutting across the chatter, "I'd like to say a few words."

  As we watched, she made her way up onto the podium, where she walked past the stand. She took Mary's gift from her and handed it to the manager. Then she clasped Mary's hands in her own. "Oh, Mary," she said, and then, turning so that they were facing outward: "Mary, Mary, Mary. What a darling you've been."

  There was a spontaneous burst of applause across the room. Mrs. Gopnik nodded, waiting until it died down. "Over the years my daughter has grown up with you watching over her--and us--during the hundreds, no, thousands of hours we've spent here. Such happy, happy times. If we've had the slightest problem you've always been there, sorting things out, bandaging scraped knees or putting endless ice packs on bumped heads. I think we all remember the incident in the boathouse!"

  There was a ripple of laughter.

  "You've especially loved our children, and this place always felt like a sanctuary to Leonard and me because it was the one place we knew our family would be safe and happy. Those beautiful lawns have seen so many great times, and been witness to so much laughter. While we'd be off playing golf or having a delicious cocktail with friends there at the sidelines, you'd be watching over children or handing out glasses of that inimitable iced tea. We all love Mary's special iced tea, don't we, friends?"

  There was a cheer. I watched as Agnes grew rigid, clapping robotically as if she wasn't quite sure what else to do.

  Emmett leaned into me. "Mary's iced tea is quite a thing. I don't know what she puts into it but, my goodness, it's lethal." He raised his eyes to the heavens.

  "Tabitha came out specially from the city, like so many of us today, because I know that she thinks of you not just as staff at this club, but as part of the family. And we all know there's no substitute for family!"