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 for ever 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 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 new-found 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 moulded 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 realised 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 – marvelling 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 upwards. ‘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 leant 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 at 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.’