Page 141 of Still Me
An image of this alternative life swam before my eyes—me, dressed in a suit, headed to work each day in these vast glass offices. Louisa Clark, earning a big salary, living somewhere I could afford. A New Yorker. Not looking after anyone, for once, just pushing upward, the sky limitless above me. It would be a whole new life, a real shot at the American Dream.
I thought of my family’s pride if I said yes.
I thought of a scruffy warehouse downtown, filled to the brim with other people’s old clothes. “Mr. Gopnik, again, I’m very flattered. But I don’t think so.”
His expression hardened. “So you do want money.”
I blinked.
“We live in a litigious society, Louisa. I am conscious that you hold highly sensitive information about my family. If it’s a lump sum you’re after, we’ll talk about it. I can bring my lawyer into the discussion.” He leaned over and put his finger on the intercom. “Diane, can you—”
It was at this point that I stood. I lowered Dean Martin gently to the floor. “Mr. Gopnik, I don’t want your money. If I’d wanted to sue you or—or make money from your secrets—I would have done it weeks ago, when I was left without a job or anywhere to live. You’ve misjudged me now as you misjudged me back then. And I’d like to leave now.”
He took his finger off the phone. “Please... sit. I didn’t mean to offend you.” He motioned to the chair. “Please, Louisa. I need to get this matter sorted out.”
He didn’t trust me. I saw now that Mr. Gopnik lived in a world where money and status were prized so far above everything else that it was inconceivable to him that somebody wouldn’t try to extract some, given the opportunity.
“You want me to sign something,” I said coolly.
“I want to know your price.”
And then it occurred to me. Perhaps I did have one, after all.
I sat down again, and after a moment I told him, and for the first time in the nine months that we’d met, he looked properly surprised. “That’s what you want?”
“That’s what I want. I don’t care how you do it.”
He leaned back in his chair, and placed his hands behind his head. He looked off to the side, thinking for a moment, then turned back tome. “I rather wish you would come back and work for me, Louisa Clark,” he said. And then he smiled, for the first time, and reached across the desk to shake my hand.
—
“Letter for you,” said Ashok as I walked in. Mr. Gopnik had instructed that the car should bring me home and I had asked the driver to drop me two blocks away so that Dean Martin could stretch his legs. I was still shaking from the encounter. I felt lightheaded, elated, as if I were capable of anything. Ashok had to call twice before I registered what he’d said.
“For me?” I stared down at the address—I couldn’t think who knew I was living at Mrs. De Witt’s aside from my parents, and my mother always liked to e-mail me to tell me that she’d written me a letter just so I could keep a look out.
I ran upstairs, gave Dean Martin a drink, then sat down to open it. The handwriting was unfamiliar so I flicked the letter over. It was written on cheap copier paper, in black ink, and there were a couple of crossings-out, as if the writer had struggled with what he wanted to say.
Sam.
30
Dear Lou,
I wasn’t entirely truthful when we last met. So I’m writing to you now, not because I think it will change anything but because I deceived you once and it’s important to me that you never feel I did that again.
I’m not with Katie. I wasn’t when I last saw you. I don’t want to say too much but it became clear pretty quickly that we are very different people, and that I had made a huge mistake. If I’m honest, I think I knew it from the start. She has put in for a transfer and although they don’t like it much at head office it looks like they’ll go ahead with it.
I’m left feeling like a fool, and rightly so. Not a day goes by when I don’t wish I’d just written you a few lines every day, like you asked, or sent the odd postcard. I should have hung on tighter. I should have told you what I felt when I felt it. I should have just tried a bit harder instead of throwing myself a pity party at the thought of all the people who had left me behind.
Like I said, I’m not writing to change your mind. I know you’ve moved on. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry, and that I’ll always regret what happened, and that I really hope you’re happy (it’s kind of hard to tell at a funeral).
Take care of yourself, Louisa.
Love always,
Sam
I felt giddy. Then I felt a bit sick. And then I gulped, swallowing a huge sob of an emotion I couldn’t quite identify. And then I screwed the letter up in a ball and, with a roar, hurled it with force into the bin.
