Page 4 of Still Me
I barely glimpsed the grandeur of the duplex itself, with its parquet floors, elevated ceilings, and floor-length damask drapes, as we headed straight to the staff quarters, which were tucked away at the far end of the second floor, down a long, narrow corridor that led off the kitchen—an anomaly left over from a distant age. The newer or refurbished buildings had no staff quarters: housekeepers and nannies would travel in from Queens or New Jersey on the dawn train and return home after dark. But the Gopnik family had owned these tiny rooms since the building was first constructed. They could not be developed or sold, but were tied through deeds to the main residence, and lusted after as storage rooms. It wasn’t hard to see why they might naturally be considered storage.
“There.” Nathan opened a door and dropped my bags.
My room measured approximately twelve feet by twelve feet. It housed a double bed, a television, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe.A small armchair, upholstered in beige fabric, sat in the corner, its sagging seat testament to previous exhausted occupants. A small window might have looked south. Or north. Or east. It was hard to tell, as it was approximately six feet from the blank brick rear of a building so tall that I could see the sky only if I pressed my face to the glass and craned my neck.
A communal kitchen sat nearby on the corridor, to be shared by me, Nathan, and a housekeeper, whose own room was across the corridor.
On my bed sat a neat pile of five dark-green polo shirts and what looked like black trousers, bearing a cheap Teflon sheen.
“They didn’t tell you about the uniform?”
I picked up one of the polo shirts.
“It’s just a shirt and trousers. The Gopniks think a uniform makes it simpler. Everyone knows where they stand.”
“If you want to look like a pro golfer.”
I peered into the tiny bathroom, tiled in limescale-encrusted brown marble, which opened off the bedroom. It housed a loo, a small basin that looked like it dated from the 1940s, and a shower. A paper-wrapped soap and a can of cockroach killer sat on the side.
“It’s actually pretty generous by Manhattan standards,” Nathan said. “I know it looks a little tired but Mrs. G says we can give it a splosh of paint. A couple of extra lamps and a quick trip to Crate and Barrel and it’ll—”
“I love it,” I said. I turned to him, my voice suddenly shaky. “I’m in New York, Nathan. I’m actually here.”
He squeezed my shoulder. “Yup. You really are.”
—
I managed to stay awake just long enough to unpack, eat some takeaway with Nathan (he called it takeout, like an actual American), flicked through some of the 859 channels on my little television, the bulk of which seemed to be on an ever-running loop of American football, adverts for digestion issues, or badly lit crime shows I hadn’t heard of, and then I zonked out. I woke with a start at four forty-five a.m. For a few discombobulating minutes I was confused by the distant sound of an unfamiliar siren, the low whine of a reversing truck, then flicked on the light switch, remembered where I was, and a jolt of excitement whipped through me.
I pulled my laptop from my bag and tapped out a chat message to Sam.
You there? xxx
I waited, but nothing came back. He had said he was back on duty, and was too befuddled to work out the time difference. I put my laptop down and tried briefly to get back to sleep (Treena said when I didn’t sleep enough I looked like a sad horse). But the unfamiliar sounds of the city were a siren call, and at six I climbed out of bed and showered, trying to ignore the rust in the sputtering water that exploded out of the shower head. I dressed (denim pinafore sundress and a vintage turquoise short-sleeved blouse with a picture of the Statue of Liberty) and went in search of coffee.
I padded along the corridor, trying to remember the location of the staff kitchen that Nathan had shown me the previous evening. I opened a door and a woman turned and stared at me. She was middle-aged and stocky, her hair set in neat dark waves, like a 1930s movie star. Her eyes were beautiful and dark but her mouth dragged down at the edges, as if in permanent disapproval.
“Um... good morning!”
She kept staring at me.
“I—I’m Louisa? The new girl? Mrs. Gopnik’s... assistant?”
“She is not Mrs. Gopnik.” The woman left this statement hanging in the air.
“You must be...” I racked my jet-lagged brain but no name was forthcoming.Oh, come on, I willed myself. “I’m so sorry. My brain is like porridge this morning. Jet lag.”
“My name is Ilaria.”
“Ilaria. Of course, that’s it. Sorry.” I stuck out my hand. She didn’t take it.
“I know who you are.”
“Um... can you show me where Nathan keeps his milk? I just wanted to get a coffee.”
“Nathan doesn’t drink milk.”
“Really? He used to.”
