Page 139 of Still Me
“Good luck!” shouted theWheel of Fortunehost, and spun again.
And I realized 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—marveling 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 thewhole lot off you,” said Lydia, blowing a smoke ring upward. “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 leaned 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 in 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.”
—
I brought Dean Martin. He was a useful distraction from my vague sense of anxiety. Michael sat beside me in the limousine and Dean Martin glared at him and at the back of the driver’s seat simultaneously. I sat in silence, wondering what on earth Mr. Gopnik was going to do now. If he had decided to press charges surely he would have sent the police, rather than his car. Had he waited deliberately until Margot had gone? Had he uncovered other things I was about to be blamed for? I thought of Steven Lipkott and the pregnancy test and wondered what my response would be if he asked point blank what I knew. Will had always said I had the worst poker face. I practiced in my head,I know nothing, until Michael shot me a sharp look and I realized I’d started saying it out loud.
We were discharged in front of a huge glass building. Michael walked briskly through the cavernous, marble-clad lobby, but I refused to hurry and instead let Dean Martin amble along at his own pace even though I could tell it infuriated Michael. He collected a pass from security, handed it to me, then directed me toward a separate lift near the back of the lobby—Mr. Gopnik was plainly too important to travel up and down with the rest of his staff.
We went up to the forty-sixth floor, traveling at a speed that made my eyes bulge almost as much as Dean Martin’s, and I tried to hide the slight wobble in my legs as I stepped out into the hushed silence of the offices. A secretary, immaculately dressed in a tailored suit and spike heels, did a double take at me—I guessed they didn’t get too many people dressed in 1970s emerald Ossie Clark trouser suits with red satin trim, clutching furious small dogs. I followed Michael along a corridor to another office, in which sat another woman, also immaculately dressed in her office uniform.
“I have Miss Clark to see Mr. Gopnik, Diane,” he said.
She nodded, and lifted a phone, murmuring something into it. “He’ll see you now,” she said with a small smile.
Michael pointed me toward the door. “Do you want me to take the dog?” he said. He was plainly desperate for me not to take the dog.
“No. Thank you,” I said, holding Dean Martin a little tighter to me.
The door opened and there stood Leonard Gopnik in his shirtsleeves.
