Page 21 of Still Me
“You understand. Yes? Tonight you have to not be staff. It’s very important.”
I thought of the enormous carrier bag in the boot behind me as the car navigated its way slowly through the Manhattan traffic, a little dumbstruck at the direction this day was taking.
“Leonard says you looked after a man who died.”
“I did. His name was Will.”
“He says you have—discretion.”
“I try.”
“And also that you don’t know anyone here.”
“Just Nathan.”
She thought about this. “Nathan. I think he is a good man.”
“He really is.”
She studied her nails. “You speak Polish?”
“No.” I added quickly: “But maybe I could learn, if you—”
“You know what is difficult for me, Louisa?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t know who I...” She hesitated, then apparently changed her mind about what she was going to say. “I need you to be my friend tonight. Okay? Leonard... he will have to do his work thing. Always talking, talking with the men. But you will stay with me, yes? Right by me.”
“Whatever you want.”
“And if anybody ask, you are my old friend. From when I lived in England. We—we knew each other from school. Not my assistant, okay?”
“Got it. From school.”
That seemed to satisfy her. She nodded, and settled back in her seat. She said nothing else the whole way back to the apartment.
—
The New York Palace Hotel, which held the Strager Foundation Gala, was so grand it was almost comical: a fairytale fortress, with a courtyard and arched windows, it was dotted with liveried footmen in daffodil silk knickerbockers. It was as if they had looked at every grand old hotel in Europe, taken notes about ornate cornicing, marble lobbies, and fiddly bits of gilt and decided to add it all together, sprinkle some Disney fairy dust on it, and ramp it up to camp levels all of its own. I half expected to see a pumpkin coach and the odd glass slipper on the red stair carpet. As we pulled up, I gazed into the glowing interior, the twinkling lights and sea of yellow dresses, and almost wanted to laugh, but Agnes was so tense I didn’t dare. Plus my bodice was so tight I would probably have burst my seams.
Garry dropped us outside the main entrance, levering the car into a turning area thick with huge black limousines. We walked in past a crowd of onlookers on the sidewalk. A man took our coats, and for the first time Agnes’s dress was fully visible.
She looked astonishing. Hers was not a conventional ballgown like mine, or like any of the other women’s, but neon yellow, structured, a floor-length tube with one sculpted shoulder motif that rose up to her head. Her hair was scraped back unforgivingly, tight and sleek, and two enormous gold and yellow-diamond earrings hung from her ears. It should have looked extraordinary. But here, I realized with a faint drop to my stomach, it was somehow too much—out of place in the old-world grandeur of the hotel.
As she stood there, nearby heads swiveled, eyebrows lifting as the matrons in their yellow silk wraps and boned corsets viewed her from the corners of carefully made-up eyes.
Agnes appeared oblivious. She glanced around distractedly, trying to locate her husband. She wouldn’t relax until she had hold of his arm. Sometimes I watched them together and saw an almost palpable sense of relief come over her when she felt him beside her.
“Your dress is amazing,” I said.
She looked down at me as if she had just remembered I was there.A flashbulb went off and I saw that photographers were moving among us. I stepped away to give Agnes space, but the man motioned toward me. “You too, ma’am. That’s it. And smile.” She smiled, her gaze flickering toward me as if reassuring herself I was still nearby.
And then Mr. Gopnik appeared. He walked over a little stiffly—Nathan had said he was having a bad week—and kissed his wife’s cheek. I heard him murmur something into her ear and she smiled, a sincere, unguarded smile. Their hands briefly clasped, and in that moment I noted that two people could fit all the stereotypes and yet there was something about them that was completely genuine, a delight in each other’s presence. It made me feel suddenly wistful for Sam. But then I couldn’t imagine him somewhere like this, trussed up in a dinner jacket and bow tie. He would, I thought absently, have hated it.
“Name, please?” The photographer appeared at my shoulder.
Perhaps it was thinking of Sam that made me do it. “Um. Louisa Clark-Fielding,” I said, in my most strangulated upper-class accent. “From England.”
