Page 22 of Still Me
“Mr. Gopnik! Over here, Mr. Gopnik!” I backed into the crowd as the photographers took pictures of them together, his hand resting lightly on his wife’s back, her shoulders straight and chin up as if she could command the gathering. And then I saw him scan the room for me, his eyes meeting mine across the lobby.
He walked Agnes over. “Darling, I have to talk to some people. Will you two be all right going in on your own?”
“Of course, Mr. Gopnik,” I said, as if I did this kind of thing every day.
“Will you be back soon?” Agnes still had hold of his hand.
“I have to talk to Wainwright and Miller. I promised I’d give them ten minutes to go over this bond deal.”
Agnes nodded, but her face betrayed her reluctance to let him go. As she walked through the lobby Mr. Gopnik leaned in to me. “Don’t let her drink too much. She’s nervous.”
“Yes, Mr. Gopnik.”
He nodded, glanced around him as if deep in thought. Then he turned back to me and smiled. “You look very nice.” And then he was gone.
—
The ballroom was jammed, a sea of yellow and black. I wore the yellow and black beaded bracelet Will’s daughter, Lily, had given me before I’dleft England—and thought privately how much I would have loved to wear my bumblebee tights too. These women didn’t look like they’d had fun with their wardrobes their entire lives.
The first thing that struck me was how thin most of them were, hoicked into tiny dresses, clavicles poking out like safety rails. Women of a certain age in Stortfold tended to spread gently outward, cloaking their extra inches in cardigans or long jumpers (“Does it cover my bum?”) and paying lip service to looking good in the form of the occasional new mascara or a six-weekly haircut. In my hometown it was as if to pay too much attention to yourself was somehow suspect, or suggested unhealthy self-interest.
But the women in this ballroom looked as if they made their appearance a full-time job. There was no hair not perfectly coiffed into shape, no upper arm that was not toned into submission by some rigorous daily workout. Even the women of uncertain years (it was hard to tell, given the amount of Botox and fillers) looked as if they’d never heard of a bingo wing, let alone flapped one. I thought of Agnes, her personal trainer, her dermatologist, her hairdressing and manicurist appointments and thought, Thisisher job now. She has to do all that maintenance so she can turn up here and hold her own in this crowd.
Agnes moved slowly among them, her head high, smiling at her husband’s friends, who came over to greet her and share a few words while I hovered uncomfortably in the background. The friends were always men. It was only men who smiled at her. The women, while not rude enough to walk away, tended to turn their faces discreetly, as if suddenly distracted by something in the distance so that they didn’t have to engage with her. Several times as we continued through the crowd, me walking behind her, I saw a wife’s expression tighten, as if Agnes’s presence was some kind of transgression.
“Good evening,” said a voice at my ear.
I looked up and stumbled backward. Will Traynor stood beside me.
5
Afterward I was glad that the room was so crowded because when I stumbled sideways onto the man next to me, he instinctively reached out a hand and, in an instant, several dinner-suited arms were righting me, a sea of faces, smiling, concerned. As I thanked them, apologizing, I saw my mistake. No, not Will—his hair was the same cut and color, his skin that same caramel hue. But I must have gasped aloud because the man who was not Will said, “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”
“I—no. No.” I put my hand to my cheek, my eyes locked on his. “You—you just look like someone I know. Knew.” I felt my face flush, the kind of stain that starts at your chest and floods its way up to your hairline.
“You okay?”
“Oh, gosh. Fine. I’m fine.” I felt stupid now. My face glowed with it.
“You’re English.”
“You’re not.”
“Not even a New Yorker. Bostonian. Joshua William Ryan the Third.” He held out his hand.
“You even have his name.”
“I’m sorry?”
I took his hand. Close up, he was quite different from Will. His eyes were dark brown, his brow lower. But the similarities had left me completely unbalanced. I tore my gaze away from him, conscious that I was still hanging on to his fingers. “I’m sorry. I’m a little...”
“Let me get you a drink.”
“I can’t. I’m meant to be with my—my friend over there.”
He looked at Agnes. “Then I’ll get you both a drink. It’ll be—uh—easy to find you.” He grinned and touched my elbow. I tried not to stare at him as he walked off.
As I approached Agnes, the man who had been talking to her was hauled away by his wife. Agnes lifted a hand as if she were about to saysomething in response to him and found herself talking to a broad expanse of dinner-jacketed back. She turned, her face rigid.
