Page 48 of Still Me
“What do you mean?”
“This is a really great job, right? I mean, you might not think that tonight, but you’ve got a great situation in the heart of New York, a good wage, and a decent employer. You get to go to all sorts of great places, and some occasional perks. They bought you a nearly-three-thousand-dollar ball dress, right? I got to go to the Bahamas with Mr. G a couple of months ago. Five-star hotel, beachfront room, the lot. Just for a couple of hours’ work a day. So we’re lucky. But in the long term, the cost of all that might turn out to be a relationship with someone whose life is completely different and a million miles away. That’s the choice you make when you head out.”
I stared at him.
“I just think you’ve got to be realistic about these things.”
“You’re not really helping, Nathan.”
“I’m being straight with you. And, hey, look on the bright side. I heard you did a great job today with the drawing. Mr. G told me he was really impressed.”
“They really liked it?” I tried to suppress my glow of pleasure.
“Aw, man. Seriously. Loved it. She’s going to knock those charity ladies dead.”
I leaned against him, and he switched the volume back up. “Thanks, Nathan,” I said, and opened my sushi. “You’re a mate.”
He grimaced slightly. “Yeah. That whole fishy thing. Any chance you could wait until you’re in your own room?”
I closed my sushi box. He was right. Nobody could have everything.
10
From: [email protected]
Hey, Mum,
Sorry for the late reply. It’s quite busy here! Never a dull moment!
I’m glad you liked the pictures. Yes, the carpets are 100 percent wool, some of the rugs are silk, the wood is definitely not veneer, and I asked Ilaria and they get their curtains dry-cleaned once a year while they spend a month in the Hamptons. The cleaners are very thorough but Ilaria does the kitchen floor every day herself because she doesn’t trust them.
Yes, Mrs. Gopnik does have a walk-in shower and also a walk-in wardrobe in her dressing room. She is very fond of her dressing room and spends a lot of time in there on the phone to her mum in Poland. I didn’t have time to count the shoes like you asked but I’d say there are well over a hundred pairs. She has them stacked in boxes with pictures of them stuck to the front just so she knows which is which. When she gets a new pair it’s my job to take the picture. She has a camera just for her shoe boxes!
I’m glad the art course went well and the Better Communication for Couples class sounds grand, but you must tell Dad that it’s not to do with Bedroom Stuff. He’s sent me three emails this week, asking if I think he could fake a heart murmur.
Sorry to hear that Granddad’s been under the weather. Is he still hiding his vegetables under the table? Are you sure you have to give up your night classes? Seems like a shame.
Okay—got to go. Agnes is calling me. I’ll let you know about Christmas, but don’t worry, I will be there.
Love you
Louisa xxx
PS No, I haven’t seen Robert De Niro again but, yes, if I do I will definitely tell him that you liked him very much in The Mission.
PPS No, I honestly haven’t spent any time in Angola and I’m not in urgent need of a cash transfer. Don’t answer those ones.
I’m no expert on depression. I hadn’t even understood my own after Will died. But I found Agnes’s moods especially hard to fathom. My mother’s friends who suffered depression—and there seemed to be a dismaying number of them—seemed flattened by life, struggling through a fog that descended until they could see no joy, no prospect of pleasure. It obscured their way forward. You could see it in the way they walked around town, their shoulders bowed, their mouths set in thin lines of forbearance. It was as if sadness seeped from them.
Agnes was different. She was boisterous and garrulous one minute, then weepy and furious the next. I’d been told that she felt isolated, judged, without allies. But that never quite fit. Because the more time I spent with her, the more I noticed she was not really cowed by those women: she was infuriated by them. She would rage about the unfairness, scream at Mr. Gopnik; she would imitate them cruelly behind his back, and mutter furiously about the first Mrs. Gopnik, or Ilaria and her scheming ways. She was mercurial, a human flame ofoutrage, growling aboutcipaordebil or dziwka. (I would Google these in my time off until my ears went pink.)
And then, abruptly, she was someone quite different—a woman who disappeared into rooms and wept quietly, a tense, frozen face after a long phone call in Polish. Her sadness manifested itself in headaches, which I was never quite sure were real.
I talked about it to Treena in the coffee shop with the free WiFi that I had sat in on my first morning in New York. We were using FaceTime Audio, which I preferred to us looking at each other’s faces as we talked—I got distracted by the way my nose seemed enormous, or what someone was doing behind me. I also didn’t want her to see the size of the buttered muffins I was eating.
“Perhaps she’s bipolar,” Treena said.
