Like hell she isn’t.
‘Great! Sounds lovely,’ I said.
‘I think you’ll like her.’
‘Then I’m sure I will.’
Like I’d like Ebola virus. Or grating off my own elbows. Or maybe eating that cheese that has live bugs in it.
He sounded relieved when he said, ‘Can’t wait to see you. You’re back for a week, right?’
I lowered my head, trying to muffle my voice a little. ‘Sam, does – does Katie really want to meet me? Is this, like, something you’ve discussed?’
‘Yeah.’ And then, when I said nothing, he added, ‘I mean, not in any … We didn’t talk about what happened with you and me or anything. But she gets that it must be hard for us.’
‘I see.’ I felt my jaw tighten.
‘She thinks you sound great. Obviously I told her she’s got that wrong.’
I laughed, and I’m not sure the world’s worst actor could have made it sound less convincing.
‘You’ll see when you meet her. Can’t wait.’
When he rang off, I looked up to find Garry was looking at me in the rear-view mirror. Our eyes met for a moment, then his slid away.
Given that I lived in one of the world’s busiest metropolises, I had begun to understand that the world as I knew it was actually very small, shrink-wrapped around the demands of the Gopniks from six in the morning often until late evening. My life had become completely intertwined with theirs. Just as I had with Will, I’d become attuned to Agnes’s every mood, able to detect from the subtlest signs whether she was depressed, angry or simply in need of food. I now knew when her periods were due, and marked them in my personal diary so that I could be braced for five days of heightened emotion or extra-emphatic piano playing. I knew how to become invisible during times of family conflict or when to be ever-present. I became a shadow, so much so that sometimes I felt almost evanescent – useful only in relation to someone else.
My life before the Gopniks had receded, become a faint, ghostly thing, experienced through odd phone calls (when Gopnik schedules allowed) or sporadic emails. I failed to ring my sister for two weeks and cried when my mother sent me a handwritten letter with photographs of her and Thom at a theatre matinee ‘just in case you’ve forgotten what we look like’.
It could get a little much. So as a balance, even though I was exhausted, I travelled to the library every weekend with Ashok and Meena – once even going by myself when their children were ill. I got better at dressing for the cold and made my own placard – Knowledge is power! – with its private nod to Will. I would head back on the train and afterwards make my way down to the East Village to have a coffee at the Vintage Clothes Emporium and look over whatever new items Lydia and her sister had in stock.
Mr Gopnik never mentioned the library again. I realized with mild disappointment that charity could mean something quite different here; that it was not enough to give, you had to be seen to be giving. Hospitals bore the names of their donors in six-foot-high letters above the door. Balls were named after those who funded them. Even buses bore lists of names alongside their rear windows. Mr and Mrs Leonard Gopnik were known as generous benefactors because they were visible in society as being so. A scruffy library in a rundown neighbourhood offered no such kudos.
Ashok and Meena had invited me for Thanksgiving at their apartment in Washington Heights, horrified when I revealed I had no plans. ‘You can’t spend Thanksgiving on your own!’ Ashok said, and I decided not to mention that few people in England even knew what it was. ‘My mother makes the turkey – but don’t expect it to be done American-style,’ Meena said. ‘We can’t stand all that bland food. This is going to be some serious tandoori turkey.’
It was no effort to say yes to something new: I was quite excited. I bought a bottle of champagne, some fancy chocolates and some flowers for Meena’s mother, then put on my blue cocktail dress with the fur sleeves, figuring an Indian Thanksgiving would be a suitable first outing for it – or, at least, one with no discernible dress code. Ilaria was flat out preparing for the Gopniks’ family dinner and I decided not to disturb her. I let myself out, checking that I had the instructions Ashok had given me.
As I headed down the corridor I noticed Mrs De Witt’s door was open. I heard the television burbling from deep inside the apartment. A few feet from the door Dean Martin stood in the hallway glaring at me. I wondered if he was about to make another break for freedom, and rang the doorbell.
Mrs De Witt emerged into the corridor.
‘Mrs De Witt? I think Dean Martin may be about to go for a walk.’ The dog pottered back towards her. She leaned against the wall. She looked frail and tired. ‘Can you shut the door, dear? I must have not closed it properly.’
‘Will do. Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs De Witt,’ I said.
‘Is it? I hadn’t noticed.’ She disappeared back into the room, the dog behind her, and I closed the front door. I had never seen her with so much as a casual caller and felt a brief sadness at the thought of her spending Thanksgiving alone.
I was just turning to leave when Agnes came down the corridor in her gym kit. She seemed startled to see me. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To dinner?’ I didn’t want to say who I was going with. I didn’t know how the employers of the building would feel if they thought the staff were getting together without them. She looked at me in horror.
‘But you can’t go, Louisa. Leonard’s family is coming here. I can’t do this by myself. I told them you would be here.’
‘You did? But –’
‘You must stay.’
I looked at the door. My heart sank.
And then her voice dropped. ‘Please, Louisa. You’re my friend. I need you.’
I rang Ashok and told him. My one consolation was that, doing the job he did, he grasped the situation immediately. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered into the phone. ‘I really wanted to come.’
‘Nah. You got to stay. Hey, Meena’s yelling to tell you she’s going to save some turkey for you. I’ll bring it with me tomorrow … Baby, I told her! I did! She says drink all their expensive wine. Okay?’
I felt, briefly, on the edge of tears. I had looked forward to an evening full of giggling children, delicious food and laughter. Instead I was going to be a shadow again, a silent prop in an icy room.
My fears were justified.
Three other members of the Gopnik family came to Thanksgiving: his brother, an older, greyer, more anaemic version of Mr Gopnik, who apparently did something in law. Probably ran the US Department of Justice. He brought with him their mother, who sat in a wheelchair, refused to take off her fur coat for the entire evening and complained loudly that she couldn’t hear what anyone was saying. Mr Gopnik’s brother’s wife, a former violinist apparently of some note, accompanied them. She was the only person there who bothered to ask what I did. She greeted Agnes with two kisses and the kind of professional smile that could have been meant for anyone.
Tab made up the numbers, arriving late and bringing with her the air of someone who has spent their cab ride in deep telephone discussion about how much they did not want to be there. Moments after she arrived we were seated to eat in the dining room – which was off the main living room and dominated by a long oval mahogany dining table.
It is fair to say the conversation was stilted. Mr Gopnik and his brother fell immediately into conversation about the legal restrictions in the country where he was currently doing business, and the two wives asked each other a few stiff questions, like people practising small-talk in a foreign language.
‘How have you been, Agnes?’
‘Fine, thank you. And you, Veronica?’
‘Very well. You look very well. That’s a very nice dress.’
‘Thank you. You also look very nice.’
‘Did I hear that you had been to Poland? I’m sure Leonard said you were visiting your mother.’