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.
‘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.’
‘Colour 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 iced 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 grey 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
Westchester, NY
Dear Louisa,
I hope you are well and that the apartment is not proving too troublesome. Frank says the contractors are coming to look round 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 round 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 honour 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?’