Page 41 of Still Me
“Sam...”
“Five minutes.”
“It’s never five minutes. Oh, man—I can’t believe I’m saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
He growled with frustration. “Dammit. I feel okay today. Likereallyokay.”
“Believe me, I can tell.”
“Sorry,” he said. And then: “No, I’m not. Not remotely.”
I grinned at him, closed my eyes and kissed him back, feeling even then how easy it would be just to topple back onto the BurgundyBedspread of Doom and lose myself again. “Me either. I’ll see you later, though.” I wriggled out of his arms and ran out of the room and along the corridor, listening to his yelled “I love you!” And thinking that despite potential bedbugs, unsanitary bedspreads, and inadequate bathroom soundproofing, actually, this was a very nice hotel indeed.
—
Mr. Gopnik was suffering acute pain in his legs and had been awake half the night, which had left Agnes anxious and fractious. She had had a bad weekend at the country club, the other women freezing her out of conversation and gossiping about her in the spa. From the way Nathan whispered this as I passed him in the lobby, it sounded like thirteen-year-old girls on a toxic sleepover.
“You’re late,” Agnes growled, as she returned from her run with George, mopping her face with a towel. In the next room I could hear Mr. Gopnik’s uncharacteristically raised voice on the telephone. She didn’t look at me as she spoke.
“I’m sorry. It’s because my...” I began, but she had already walked past.
“She’s freaking out about the charity reception this evening,” murmured Michael, heading past me with an armful of dry-cleaning and a clipboard.
I racked my mental Rolodex. “Children’s Cancer Hospital?”
“The very one,” he said. “She’s meant to bring a doodle.”
“A doodle?”
“A little picture. On a special card. They auction them off at the dinner.”
“So how hard is that? She can do a smiley face or a flower or something. I’ll do it if she likes. I can do a mean smiling horse. I can put a hat on it too, with the ears sticking out.” I was still full of Sam and found it hard to see the problem in anything.
He looked at me. “Sweetheart. You think ‘doodle’ means actual doodle?Oh, no. It has to be real art.”
“I got a B in GCSE art.”
“You’re so sweet. No, Louisa, they don’t do it themselves. Every artist between here and Brooklyn Bridge has apparently spent the weekend creating some delicious little pen-and-ink study for cold, hard cash. She only found out last night. Overheard two of the Witches talking aboutit before she left the club and when she asked them they told her the truth. So guess what you’re doing today? Have a great morning!”
He blew me a kiss and hurried out of the door.
—
While Agnes showered and had breakfast I did an online search of “artists in New York.” It was about as much use as searching “dogs with tails.” The few who had websites and bothered to pick up the phone answered my request like I’d suggested they waltz naked around the nearest shopping mall. “You want Mr. Fischl to do a...doodle? For acharity lunch?” Two put the phone down on me. Artists, it turned out, took themselves very seriously.
I called everyone I could find. I called gallerists in Chelsea. I called the New York Academy of Art. All the while I tried not to think about what Sam was doing. He would be having a nice brunch in that diner we’d talked about. He would be walking the High Line, like we were meant to. I needed to be back in time to take that ferry ride with him before he left for England. To do it at dusk would be romantic. I pictured us, his arm around me, gazing up at the Statue of Liberty, dropping a kiss on my hair. I dragged my thoughts back and racked my brains. And then I thought about the only other person I knew in New York who might be able to help.
—
“Josh?”
“Speaking?” The sound of a million male voices behind him.
“It’s—it’s Louisa Clark. We met at the Yellow Ball?”
“Louisa! Great to hear from you! How are you doing?” He sounded so relaxed, as if strange women called him every day of the week. They probably did. “Hold on. Let me take this outside... So what’s up?”
He had this way of making you feel instantly at ease. I wondered if Americans were born with it.
