Page 42 of Still Me
“Actually, I’m in a bit of a bind and I don’t know many people in New York so I wondered if you might be able to help.”
“Try me.”
I explained the situation, leaving out Agnes’s mood, her paranoia, my utter stammering terror faced with the New York art scene.
“Shouldn’t be too hard. When do you need this thing by?”
“That’s the tricky bit. Tonight.”
A sharp intake of breath. “Oooh-kay. Yeah. That’s a little tougher.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “I know. It’s nuts. If I’d known about it sooner I might have been able to do something. I’m really sorry to have bothered you.”
“No, no. We’ll fix this. Can I call you back?”
Agnes was out on the balcony, smoking. Turns out I wasn’t the only person who used the space after all. It was cold and she was swaddled in a huge cashmere wrap, her fingers faintly pink where her hand emerged from the soft wool.
“I’ve put out a number of calls. I’m just waiting for someone to get back to me.”
“You know what they will say, Louisa? If I bring them stupid doodle?”
I waited.
“They will say I have no culture. What can you expect from stupid Polish masseuse? Or they will say that nobody wanted to do it for me.”
“It’s only twelve twenty. We’ve still got time.”
“I don’t know why I bother,” she said softly.
Strictly speaking, I wanted to say, it wasn’t her doing the bothering. Her chief concern right now seemed to be Smoking and Looking Moody. But I knew my place. Just then my phone rang.
“Louisa?”
“Josh?”
“I think I have someone who can help. Can you get over to East Williamsburg?”
—
Twenty minutes later we were in the car headed toward the Midtown Tunnel.
As we sat in the traffic, Garry impassive and silent in the front, Agnes called Mr. Gopnik, anxious about his health, his pain. “Is Nathan coming to the office? Did you have painkillers?... Are you sure you’re okay, darling? You don’t want me to come bring you anything?... No... I’m in the car. I have to sort something for this evening. Yes, I’m still going. It’s all fine.”
I could just make out his voice at the other end. Low, reassuring.
She hung up and gazed out of the window, heaving a long sigh. I waited a moment, then started running through my notes.
“So, apparently this Steven Lipkott is up-and-coming in the fine-art world. He’s had shows in some very important places. And he’s”—I scanned my notes—“figurative. Not abstract. So you just need to tell him what you want him to draw and he’ll do it. I’m not sure how much it will cost, though.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Agnes. “Is going to be disaster.”
I turned back to the iPad and did an online search on the artist’s name. With relief, I noted that the drawings were indeed beautiful: sinuous depictions of the body. I handed the iPad to Agnes so that she could see and in a moment her mood lifted. “This is good.” She sounded almost surprised.
“Yup. If you can think of what you want, we can get him to draw it and be back for... four maybe?”And then I can leave, I added silently. While she scrolled through the other images, I texted Sam.
—How you doing?
—Not bad. Went for a nice walk. Bought souvenir beer hat for Jake. Don’t laugh.
