Still Me
Page 13
‘Name, please?’ The photographer appeared at my shoulder.
Perhaps it was thinking of Sam that made me do it. ‘Um. Louisa Clark-Fielding,’ I said, in my most strangulated upper-class accent. ‘From England.’
‘Mr Gopnik! Over here, Mr Gopnik!’ I backed into the crowd as the photographers took pictures of them together, his hand resting lightly on his wife’s back, her shoulders straight and chin up as if she could command the gathering. And then I saw him scan the room for me, his eyes meeting mine across the lobby.
He walked Agnes over. ‘Darling, I have to talk to some people. Will you two be all right going in on your own?’
‘Of course, Mr Gopnik,’ I said, as if I did this kind of thing every day.
‘Will you be back soon?’ Agnes still had hold of his hand.
‘I have to talk to Wainwright and Miller. I promised I’d give them ten minutes to go over this bond deal.’
Agnes nodded, but her face betrayed her reluctance to let him go. As she walked through the lobby Mr Gopnik leant in to me. ‘Don’t let her drink too much. She’s nervous.’
‘Yes, Mr Gopnik.’
He nodded, glanced around him as if deep in thought. Then he turned back to me and smiled. ‘You look very nice.’ And then he was gone.
The ballroom was jammed, a sea of yellow and black. I wore the yellow and black beaded bracelet Will’s daughter Lily had given me before I’d left England – and thought privately how much I would have loved to wear my bumblebee tights too. These women didn’t look like they’d had fun with their wardrobes their entire lives.
The first thing that struck me was how thin most of them were, hoicked into tiny dresses, clavicles poking out like safety rails. Women of a certain age in Stortfold tended to spread gently outwards, cloaking their extra inches in cardigans or long jumpers (‘Does it cover my bum?’) and paying lip service to looking good in the form of the occasional new mascara or a six-weekly haircut. In my hometown it was as if to pay too much attention to yourself was somehow suspect, or suggested unhealthy self-interest.
But the women in this ballroom looked as if they made their appearance a full-time job. There was no hair not perfectly coiffed into shape, no upper arm that was not toned into submission by some rigorous daily workout. Even the women of uncertain years (it was hard to tell, given the amount of Botox and fillers) looked as if they’d never heard of a bingo wing, let alone flapped one. I thought of Agnes, her personal trainer, her dermatologist, her hairdressing and manicurist appointments and thought, This is her job now. She has to do all that maintenance so she can turn up here and hold her own in this crowd.
Agnes moved slowly among them, her head high, smiling at her husband’s friends, who came over to greet her and share a few words while I hovered uncomfortably in the background. The friends were always men. It was only men who smiled at her. The women, while not rude enough to walk away, tended to turn their faces discreetly, as if suddenly distracted by something in the distance, so that they didn’t have to engage with her. Several times as we continued through the crowd, me walking behind her, I saw a wife’s expression tighten, as if Agnes’s presence was some kind of transgression.
‘Good evening,’ said a voice at my ear.
I looked up and stumbled backwards. Will Traynor stood beside me.
5
Afterwards I was glad that the room was so crowded because when I stumbled sideways into the man next to me he instinctively reached out a hand and, in an instant, several dinner-suited arms were righting me, a sea of faces, smiling, concerned. As I thanked them, apologizing, I saw my mistake. No, not Will – his hair was the same cut and colour, his skin that same caramel hue. But I must have gasped aloud because the man who was not Will said, ‘I’m sorry, did I startle you?’
‘I – no. No.’ I put my hand to my cheek, my eyes locked on his. ‘You – you just look like someone I know. Knew.’ I felt my face flush, the kind of stain that starts at your chest and floods its way up to your hairline.
‘You okay?’
‘Oh, gosh. Fine. I’m fine.’ I felt stupid now. My face glowed with it.
‘You’re English.’
‘You’re not.’
‘Not even a New Yorker. Bostonian. Joshua William Ryan the Third.’ He held out his hand.
‘You even have his name.’
‘I’m sorry?’
I took his hand. Close up, he was quite different from Will. His eyes were dark brown, his brow lower. But the similarities had left me completely unbalanced. I tore my gaze away from him, conscious that I was still hanging onto his fingers. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a little …’
‘Let me get you a drink.’
‘I can’t. I’m meant to be with my – my friend over there.’
He looked at Agnes. ‘Then I’ll get you both a drink. It’ll be – uh – easy to find you.’ He grinned and touched my elbow. I tried not to stare at him as he walked off.
As I approached Agnes, the man who had been talking to her was hauled away by his wife. Agnes lifted a hand as if she were about to say something in response to him and found herself talking to a broad expanse of dinner-jacketed back. She turned, her face rigid.
‘Sorry. Got stuck in the crowds.’
‘My dress is wrong, isn’t it?’ she whispered at me. ‘I have made huge mistake.’
She had seen it. In the sea of bodies it looked somehow too bright, less avant-garde than vulgar. ‘What am I going to do? Is disaster. I must change.’
I tried to calculate whether she could reasonably make it home and back. Even without traffic she would be gone an hour. And there was always the risk she might not come back …
‘No! It’s not a disaster. Not at all. It’s just about …’ I paused. ‘You know, a dress like that, you have to style it out.’
‘What?’
‘Own it. Hold your head up. Like you couldn’t give a crap.’
She stared at me.
‘A friend once taught me this. The man I used to work for. He told me to wear my stripy legs with pride.’
‘Your what?’
‘He … Well, he was telling me it was okay to be different from everyone else. Agnes, you look about a hundred times better than any of the other women here. You’re gorgeous. And the dress is striking. So just let it be a giant finger to them. You know? I’ll wear what I like.’
She was watching me intently. ‘You think so?’
‘Oh, yes.’
She took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. I will be giant finger.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘And no men care what dress you wear anyway, yes?’
‘Not one.’
She smiled, gave me a knowing look. ‘They just care what is underneath.’
‘That’s quite a dress, ma’am,’ said Joshua, appearing at my side. He handed us each a slim glass. ‘Champagne. The only yellow drink was Chartreuse and it made me feel kind of queasy just looking at it.’
‘Thank you.’ I took a glass.
He held out his hand to Agnes. ‘Joshua William Ryan the Third.’
‘You really have to have made up that name.’
They both turned to look at me.
‘Nobody outside soap operas can actually be called that,’ I said, and then realised I had meant to think it rather than say it aloud.
‘Okay. Well. You can call me Josh,’ he said equably.
‘Louisa Clark,’ I said, then added, ‘The First.’
His eyes narrowed just a little.
‘Mrs Leonard Gopnik. The Second,’ said Agnes. ‘But then you probably knew that.’
‘I did indeed. You are the talk of the town.’ His words could have landed hard, but he said it with warmth. I watched Agnes’s shoulders relax a little.
Josh, he told us, was there with his aunt as her husband was travelling and she hadn’t wanted to attend alone. He worked for a securities firm, talking to money managers and hedge funds about how best to manage risk. He specialized, he said, in corporate equity and debt.
‘I don’t have a clue what any of that means,’ I said.
Perhaps it was thinking of Sam that made me do it. ‘Um. Louisa Clark-Fielding,’ I said, in my most strangulated upper-class accent. ‘From England.’
‘Mr Gopnik! Over here, Mr Gopnik!’ I backed into the crowd as the photographers took pictures of them together, his hand resting lightly on his wife’s back, her shoulders straight and chin up as if she could command the gathering. And then I saw him scan the room for me, his eyes meeting mine across the lobby.
He walked Agnes over. ‘Darling, I have to talk to some people. Will you two be all right going in on your own?’
‘Of course, Mr Gopnik,’ I said, as if I did this kind of thing every day.
‘Will you be back soon?’ Agnes still had hold of his hand.
‘I have to talk to Wainwright and Miller. I promised I’d give them ten minutes to go over this bond deal.’
Agnes nodded, but her face betrayed her reluctance to let him go. As she walked through the lobby Mr Gopnik leant in to me. ‘Don’t let her drink too much. She’s nervous.’
‘Yes, Mr Gopnik.’
He nodded, glanced around him as if deep in thought. Then he turned back to me and smiled. ‘You look very nice.’ And then he was gone.
The ballroom was jammed, a sea of yellow and black. I wore the yellow and black beaded bracelet Will’s daughter Lily had given me before I’d left England – and thought privately how much I would have loved to wear my bumblebee tights too. These women didn’t look like they’d had fun with their wardrobes their entire lives.
The first thing that struck me was how thin most of them were, hoicked into tiny dresses, clavicles poking out like safety rails. Women of a certain age in Stortfold tended to spread gently outwards, cloaking their extra inches in cardigans or long jumpers (‘Does it cover my bum?’) and paying lip service to looking good in the form of the occasional new mascara or a six-weekly haircut. In my hometown it was as if to pay too much attention to yourself was somehow suspect, or suggested unhealthy self-interest.
But the women in this ballroom looked as if they made their appearance a full-time job. There was no hair not perfectly coiffed into shape, no upper arm that was not toned into submission by some rigorous daily workout. Even the women of uncertain years (it was hard to tell, given the amount of Botox and fillers) looked as if they’d never heard of a bingo wing, let alone flapped one. I thought of Agnes, her personal trainer, her dermatologist, her hairdressing and manicurist appointments and thought, This is her job now. She has to do all that maintenance so she can turn up here and hold her own in this crowd.
Agnes moved slowly among them, her head high, smiling at her husband’s friends, who came over to greet her and share a few words while I hovered uncomfortably in the background. The friends were always men. It was only men who smiled at her. The women, while not rude enough to walk away, tended to turn their faces discreetly, as if suddenly distracted by something in the distance, so that they didn’t have to engage with her. Several times as we continued through the crowd, me walking behind her, I saw a wife’s expression tighten, as if Agnes’s presence was some kind of transgression.
‘Good evening,’ said a voice at my ear.
I looked up and stumbled backwards. Will Traynor stood beside me.
5
Afterwards I was glad that the room was so crowded because when I stumbled sideways into the man next to me he instinctively reached out a hand and, in an instant, several dinner-suited arms were righting me, a sea of faces, smiling, concerned. As I thanked them, apologizing, I saw my mistake. No, not Will – his hair was the same cut and colour, his skin that same caramel hue. But I must have gasped aloud because the man who was not Will said, ‘I’m sorry, did I startle you?’
‘I – no. No.’ I put my hand to my cheek, my eyes locked on his. ‘You – you just look like someone I know. Knew.’ I felt my face flush, the kind of stain that starts at your chest and floods its way up to your hairline.
‘You okay?’
‘Oh, gosh. Fine. I’m fine.’ I felt stupid now. My face glowed with it.
‘You’re English.’
‘You’re not.’
‘Not even a New Yorker. Bostonian. Joshua William Ryan the Third.’ He held out his hand.
‘You even have his name.’
‘I’m sorry?’
I took his hand. Close up, he was quite different from Will. His eyes were dark brown, his brow lower. But the similarities had left me completely unbalanced. I tore my gaze away from him, conscious that I was still hanging onto his fingers. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a little …’
‘Let me get you a drink.’
‘I can’t. I’m meant to be with my – my friend over there.’
He looked at Agnes. ‘Then I’ll get you both a drink. It’ll be – uh – easy to find you.’ He grinned and touched my elbow. I tried not to stare at him as he walked off.
As I approached Agnes, the man who had been talking to her was hauled away by his wife. Agnes lifted a hand as if she were about to say something in response to him and found herself talking to a broad expanse of dinner-jacketed back. She turned, her face rigid.
‘Sorry. Got stuck in the crowds.’
‘My dress is wrong, isn’t it?’ she whispered at me. ‘I have made huge mistake.’
She had seen it. In the sea of bodies it looked somehow too bright, less avant-garde than vulgar. ‘What am I going to do? Is disaster. I must change.’
I tried to calculate whether she could reasonably make it home and back. Even without traffic she would be gone an hour. And there was always the risk she might not come back …
‘No! It’s not a disaster. Not at all. It’s just about …’ I paused. ‘You know, a dress like that, you have to style it out.’
‘What?’
‘Own it. Hold your head up. Like you couldn’t give a crap.’
She stared at me.
‘A friend once taught me this. The man I used to work for. He told me to wear my stripy legs with pride.’
‘Your what?’
‘He … Well, he was telling me it was okay to be different from everyone else. Agnes, you look about a hundred times better than any of the other women here. You’re gorgeous. And the dress is striking. So just let it be a giant finger to them. You know? I’ll wear what I like.’
She was watching me intently. ‘You think so?’
‘Oh, yes.’
She took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. I will be giant finger.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘And no men care what dress you wear anyway, yes?’
‘Not one.’
She smiled, gave me a knowing look. ‘They just care what is underneath.’
‘That’s quite a dress, ma’am,’ said Joshua, appearing at my side. He handed us each a slim glass. ‘Champagne. The only yellow drink was Chartreuse and it made me feel kind of queasy just looking at it.’
‘Thank you.’ I took a glass.
He held out his hand to Agnes. ‘Joshua William Ryan the Third.’
‘You really have to have made up that name.’
They both turned to look at me.
‘Nobody outside soap operas can actually be called that,’ I said, and then realised I had meant to think it rather than say it aloud.
‘Okay. Well. You can call me Josh,’ he said equably.
‘Louisa Clark,’ I said, then added, ‘The First.’
His eyes narrowed just a little.
‘Mrs Leonard Gopnik. The Second,’ said Agnes. ‘But then you probably knew that.’
‘I did indeed. You are the talk of the town.’ His words could have landed hard, but he said it with warmth. I watched Agnes’s shoulders relax a little.
Josh, he told us, was there with his aunt as her husband was travelling and she hadn’t wanted to attend alone. He worked for a securities firm, talking to money managers and hedge funds about how best to manage risk. He specialized, he said, in corporate equity and debt.
‘I don’t have a clue what any of that means,’ I said.
