Still Me
Page 73
Margot pulled at the sleeve of a nylon blouse, then peered at the label over the top of her spectacles. ‘Amy Armistead is an awful line. Never could stand the woman. Or Les Grandes Folies. Their buttons always fell off. Cheap on thread.’
‘There are some really special dresses back here, under plastic.’ I walked over to the cocktail-gown section where the best of the women’s pieces were displayed. I pulled out a Saks Fifth Avenue dress in turquoise, trimmed with sequins and beads at the hem and cuffs, and held it up against myself, smiling.
Margot peered at it, then turned the price tag in her hand. She pulled a face at the figure. ‘Who on earth would pay this?’
‘People who love good clothes,’ said Lydia, who had appeared behind us. She was chewing noisily on a piece of gum and I could see Margot’s eyes flicker slightly every time her jaws met.
‘There’s an actual market for them?’
‘A good market,’ I said. ‘Especially for things in immaculate condition, like yours. All Margot’s outfits have been kept in plastic and air conditioning. She has things that date back to the 1940s.’
‘Those aren’t mine. Those are my mother’s,’ she said stiffly.
‘Seriously? Whaddaya got?’ said Lydia, giving Margot’s coat a visible up and down. Margot was in a Jaeger three-quarter-length wool coat, and a black fur hat the shape of a large Victoria sponge. Even though the weather was almost balmy, she still appeared to feel the cold.
‘What do I have? Nothing I want to send here, thank you.’
‘But, Margot, you have some really fine suits – the Chanels and the Givenchys that no longer fit you. And you have scarves, bags – you could sell those to specialist dealers. Auction houses even.’
‘Chanel makes serious money,’ said Lydia, sagely. ‘Especially purses. If it’s not too shabby, a decent Chanel double flap in caviar leather will make two and a half to four thousand. A new one’s not going to cost you much more, you know what I’m saying? Python, woah, the sky’s the limit.’
‘You have more than one Chanel handbag, Margot,’ I pointed out.
Margot tucked her Hermès alligator bag more tightly under her arm.
‘You got more like that? We can sell ’em for you, Mrs De Witt. We got a waiting list for the good stuff. I got a lady in Asbury Park will pay up to five thousand for a decent Hermès.’ Lydia reached out to run a finger down the side of it and Margot pulled away as if she’d assaulted her.
‘It’s not stuff,’ she said. ‘I don’t own “stuff”.’
‘I just think it might be worth considering. There seems to be quite a bit you don’t use any longer. You could sell it, pay the maintenance fees, and then you could, you know, relax.’
‘I am relaxed,’ she snapped. ‘And I’ll thank you not to discuss my financial affairs in public, as if I’m not even here. Oh, I don’t like this place. It smells of old people. Come on, Dean Martin. I need some fresh air.’
I followed her out, mouthing an apology at Lydia, who shrugged, unconcerned. I suspected that even the faint possibility of Margot’s wardrobe coming her way had softened any natural tendency towards combativeness.
We caught a taxi back in silence. I was annoyed with myself for my lack of diplomacy and simultaneously irritated with Margot for her out-and-out rejection of what I had thought was quite a sensible plan. She refused to look at me during the whole journey. I sat beside her, Dean Martin panting between us, and rehearsed arguments in my head until her silence became unnerving. I glanced sideways and saw an old woman, who had recently come out of hospital. I had no right to pressure her into anything.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Margot,’ I said, as I helped her out in front of her building. ‘I just thought it might be a way forward. You know, with the debts and everything. I just don’t want you to lose your home.’
Margot straightened up and adjusted her fur hat with a brittle hand. Her voice was querulous, almost tearful, and I realized she had also been rehearsing an argument in her head for the entire fifty or so blocks. ‘You don’t understand, Louisa. These are my things, my babies. They may be old clothes, potential financial assets, to you but they are precious to me. They are my history, beautiful, prized remnants of my life.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I wouldn’t send them to that grubby second-hand shop if I were on my knees. And the thought of seeing a perfect stranger walking towards me on the street in an outfit I’d loved! I would feel utterly wretched. No. I know you were trying to help, but no.’
She turned and waved off my outstretched hand, waiting instead for Ashok to help her to the lift.
Despite our occasional misfires, Margot and I were quite content that spring.
In April, as promised, Lily came to New York, accompanied by Mrs Traynor. They stayed at the Ritz Carlton, a few blocks away, and invited Margot and me for lunch. Having them there together made me feel as if a threaded darning needle was quietly drawing the different parts of my life together.
Mrs Traynor, with her diplomat’s good manners, was delightful to Margot, and they found common ground over the history of the building and of New York in general. At lunch, I saw another Margot: quick-witted, knowledgeable, enlivened by new company. Mrs Traynor, it emerged, had come here for her honeymoon in 1978 and they discussed restaurants, galleries and exhibitions of the time. Mrs Traynor talked of her time as a magistrate, and Margot discussed the office politics of the 1970s, and they laughed heartily in a way that suggested we younger people couldn’t possibly understand. We ate salad and a small portion of fish wrapped in prosciutto. I noticed that Margot had a tiny forkful of everything, sliding the rest to one side, and despaired quietly of ever getting her to fill any of her clothes again.
Lily, meanwhile, leant into me and quizzed me about where she could go that didn’t involve either old people or any kind of cultural improvement.
‘Granny has packed these four days absolutely full of educational crap. I’ve got to go to the Museum of Modern Art and some botanical gardens and all sorts, which is fine, blah-blah, if you like all that, but I really want to go clubbing and get wrecked and go shopping. I mean, this is New York!’
‘I’ve already spoken with Mrs Traynor. And I’m taking you out tomorrow while she catches up with a cousin of hers.’
‘Seriously? Thank God. I’m going backpacking in Vietnam in the long vac. Did I tell you? I want to get some decent cut-off shorts. Something I can wear for weeks and it won’t matter if they don’t get washed. And maybe an old biker jacket. Something good and battered.’
‘Who are you going with? A friend?’ I raised an eyebrow.
‘You sound like Granny.’
‘Well?’
‘A boyfriend.’ And then, as I opened my mouth, ‘But I don’t want to say anything about him.’
‘Why? I’m delighted you have a boyfriend. It’s lovely news.’ I lowered my voice. ‘You know the last person who got cagey like that was my sister. And she was basically hiding the fact that she was about to come out.’
‘I am not coming out. I do not want to go rooting about in someone’s lady-garden. Bleurgh.’
I tried not to laugh. ‘Lily, you don’t have to keep everything close to your chest. We all just want you to be happy. It’s okay if people know your business.’
‘Granny does know my business, as you so quaintly call it.’
‘Then why can’t you tell me? I thought you and I could tell each other anything!’
Lily bore the resigned expression of someone cornered. She sighed theatrically and put down her knife and fork. She looked at me as if braced for a fight. ‘Because it’s Jake.’
‘Jake?’
‘Sam’s Jake.’
The restaurant ground to a gentle halt around me. I forced my face into a smile. ‘Okay! … Wow!’
She scowled. ‘I knew you’d react like that. Look, it just happened. And it’s not like we talk about you all the time or anything. I just ran into him a couple of times – you know we met at that Letting Go thing for that cringy grief counselling group you used to go to and we got on okay and we liked each other? Well, we sort of get each other’s situations so we’re going backpacking together in the summer. No biggie.’
‘There are some really special dresses back here, under plastic.’ I walked over to the cocktail-gown section where the best of the women’s pieces were displayed. I pulled out a Saks Fifth Avenue dress in turquoise, trimmed with sequins and beads at the hem and cuffs, and held it up against myself, smiling.
Margot peered at it, then turned the price tag in her hand. She pulled a face at the figure. ‘Who on earth would pay this?’
‘People who love good clothes,’ said Lydia, who had appeared behind us. She was chewing noisily on a piece of gum and I could see Margot’s eyes flicker slightly every time her jaws met.
‘There’s an actual market for them?’
‘A good market,’ I said. ‘Especially for things in immaculate condition, like yours. All Margot’s outfits have been kept in plastic and air conditioning. She has things that date back to the 1940s.’
‘Those aren’t mine. Those are my mother’s,’ she said stiffly.
‘Seriously? Whaddaya got?’ said Lydia, giving Margot’s coat a visible up and down. Margot was in a Jaeger three-quarter-length wool coat, and a black fur hat the shape of a large Victoria sponge. Even though the weather was almost balmy, she still appeared to feel the cold.
‘What do I have? Nothing I want to send here, thank you.’
‘But, Margot, you have some really fine suits – the Chanels and the Givenchys that no longer fit you. And you have scarves, bags – you could sell those to specialist dealers. Auction houses even.’
‘Chanel makes serious money,’ said Lydia, sagely. ‘Especially purses. If it’s not too shabby, a decent Chanel double flap in caviar leather will make two and a half to four thousand. A new one’s not going to cost you much more, you know what I’m saying? Python, woah, the sky’s the limit.’
‘You have more than one Chanel handbag, Margot,’ I pointed out.
Margot tucked her Hermès alligator bag more tightly under her arm.
‘You got more like that? We can sell ’em for you, Mrs De Witt. We got a waiting list for the good stuff. I got a lady in Asbury Park will pay up to five thousand for a decent Hermès.’ Lydia reached out to run a finger down the side of it and Margot pulled away as if she’d assaulted her.
‘It’s not stuff,’ she said. ‘I don’t own “stuff”.’
‘I just think it might be worth considering. There seems to be quite a bit you don’t use any longer. You could sell it, pay the maintenance fees, and then you could, you know, relax.’
‘I am relaxed,’ she snapped. ‘And I’ll thank you not to discuss my financial affairs in public, as if I’m not even here. Oh, I don’t like this place. It smells of old people. Come on, Dean Martin. I need some fresh air.’
I followed her out, mouthing an apology at Lydia, who shrugged, unconcerned. I suspected that even the faint possibility of Margot’s wardrobe coming her way had softened any natural tendency towards combativeness.
We caught a taxi back in silence. I was annoyed with myself for my lack of diplomacy and simultaneously irritated with Margot for her out-and-out rejection of what I had thought was quite a sensible plan. She refused to look at me during the whole journey. I sat beside her, Dean Martin panting between us, and rehearsed arguments in my head until her silence became unnerving. I glanced sideways and saw an old woman, who had recently come out of hospital. I had no right to pressure her into anything.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Margot,’ I said, as I helped her out in front of her building. ‘I just thought it might be a way forward. You know, with the debts and everything. I just don’t want you to lose your home.’
Margot straightened up and adjusted her fur hat with a brittle hand. Her voice was querulous, almost tearful, and I realized she had also been rehearsing an argument in her head for the entire fifty or so blocks. ‘You don’t understand, Louisa. These are my things, my babies. They may be old clothes, potential financial assets, to you but they are precious to me. They are my history, beautiful, prized remnants of my life.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I wouldn’t send them to that grubby second-hand shop if I were on my knees. And the thought of seeing a perfect stranger walking towards me on the street in an outfit I’d loved! I would feel utterly wretched. No. I know you were trying to help, but no.’
She turned and waved off my outstretched hand, waiting instead for Ashok to help her to the lift.
Despite our occasional misfires, Margot and I were quite content that spring.
In April, as promised, Lily came to New York, accompanied by Mrs Traynor. They stayed at the Ritz Carlton, a few blocks away, and invited Margot and me for lunch. Having them there together made me feel as if a threaded darning needle was quietly drawing the different parts of my life together.
Mrs Traynor, with her diplomat’s good manners, was delightful to Margot, and they found common ground over the history of the building and of New York in general. At lunch, I saw another Margot: quick-witted, knowledgeable, enlivened by new company. Mrs Traynor, it emerged, had come here for her honeymoon in 1978 and they discussed restaurants, galleries and exhibitions of the time. Mrs Traynor talked of her time as a magistrate, and Margot discussed the office politics of the 1970s, and they laughed heartily in a way that suggested we younger people couldn’t possibly understand. We ate salad and a small portion of fish wrapped in prosciutto. I noticed that Margot had a tiny forkful of everything, sliding the rest to one side, and despaired quietly of ever getting her to fill any of her clothes again.
Lily, meanwhile, leant into me and quizzed me about where she could go that didn’t involve either old people or any kind of cultural improvement.
‘Granny has packed these four days absolutely full of educational crap. I’ve got to go to the Museum of Modern Art and some botanical gardens and all sorts, which is fine, blah-blah, if you like all that, but I really want to go clubbing and get wrecked and go shopping. I mean, this is New York!’
‘I’ve already spoken with Mrs Traynor. And I’m taking you out tomorrow while she catches up with a cousin of hers.’
‘Seriously? Thank God. I’m going backpacking in Vietnam in the long vac. Did I tell you? I want to get some decent cut-off shorts. Something I can wear for weeks and it won’t matter if they don’t get washed. And maybe an old biker jacket. Something good and battered.’
‘Who are you going with? A friend?’ I raised an eyebrow.
‘You sound like Granny.’
‘Well?’
‘A boyfriend.’ And then, as I opened my mouth, ‘But I don’t want to say anything about him.’
‘Why? I’m delighted you have a boyfriend. It’s lovely news.’ I lowered my voice. ‘You know the last person who got cagey like that was my sister. And she was basically hiding the fact that she was about to come out.’
‘I am not coming out. I do not want to go rooting about in someone’s lady-garden. Bleurgh.’
I tried not to laugh. ‘Lily, you don’t have to keep everything close to your chest. We all just want you to be happy. It’s okay if people know your business.’
‘Granny does know my business, as you so quaintly call it.’
‘Then why can’t you tell me? I thought you and I could tell each other anything!’
Lily bore the resigned expression of someone cornered. She sighed theatrically and put down her knife and fork. She looked at me as if braced for a fight. ‘Because it’s Jake.’
‘Jake?’
‘Sam’s Jake.’
The restaurant ground to a gentle halt around me. I forced my face into a smile. ‘Okay! … Wow!’
She scowled. ‘I knew you’d react like that. Look, it just happened. And it’s not like we talk about you all the time or anything. I just ran into him a couple of times – you know we met at that Letting Go thing for that cringy grief counselling group you used to go to and we got on okay and we liked each other? Well, we sort of get each other’s situations so we’re going backpacking together in the summer. No biggie.’
