Page 54 of Still Me
It took me until we were halfway home to notice she wasn’t carrying any drawings.
11
Dear Thom,
I’m sending you a baseball cap because Nathan and I went to a real-life baseball game yesterday and all the players wore them (actually they wore helmets but this is the traditional version). I got one for you and one for someone else I know. Get your mum to take a picture of you in it and I can put it on my wall!
No, I’m afraid there aren’t any cowboys in this part of America sadly—but today I am going to a country club so I will keep an eye out in case one rides by.
Thank you for the very nice picture of my bum-bum with my imaginary dog. I hadn’t realized my backside was that shade of purple underneath my trousers, but I shall bear that in mind if I ever decide to walk naked past the Statue of Liberty like in your picture.
I think your version of New York may be even more exciting than the real thing.
Lots of love,
Auntie Lou xxx
Grand Pines Country Club sprawled across acres of lush countryside, its trees and fields rolling so perfectly and in such a vivid shade of green they might have sprung from the imagination of a seven-year-old with crayons.
On a crisp, clear day Garry drove us slowly up the long drive, and when the car pulled up in front of the sprawling white building, ayoung man in a pale blue uniform stepped forward and opened Agnes’s door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Gopnik. How are you today?”
“Very good, thank you, Randy. And how are you?”
“Couldn’t be better, ma’am. Getting busy in there already. Big day!”
Mr. Gopnik having been detained at work, it had fallen to Agnes to present Mary, one of the long-serving staff at his country club, with a retirement gift. Agnes had made her feelings clear for much of the week about having to do this. She hated the country club. The former Mrs. Gopnik’s cronies would be there. And Agnes hated speaking in public. She could not do it without Leonard. But, for once, he was immovable.It will help you claim your place, darling. And Louisa will be with you.
We practiced her speech and we made a plan. We would arrive in the Great Room as late as possible, at the last moment before the starters were served so that we could sit down with apologies, blaming Manhattan traffic. Mary Lander, the retiree in question, would stand after the coffee at two p.m., and a few people would say nice words about her. Then Agnes would stand, apologize for Mr. Gopnik’s unavoidable absence, and say a few more nice words about Mary before handing over her retirement gift. We would wait a diplomatic half-hour longer then leave, pleading important business in the city.
“You think this dress is okay?” She was wearing an unusually conservative two-piece: a shift dress in fuchsia with a paler short-sleeved jacket and a string of pearls. Not her usual look, but I understood that she needed to feel as if she was wearing armor.
“Perfect.” She took a breath and I nudged her, smiling. She took my hand briefly and squeezed it.
“In and out,” I said. “Nothing to it.”
“Two giant fingers,” she murmured, and gave me a small smile.
The building itself was sprawling and light, painted magnolia, with huge vases of flowers and reproduction antique furniture everywhere. Its oak-paneled halls, its portraits of founders on the walls, and silent staff moving from room to room were accompanied by the gentle hush of quiet conversation, the occasional clink of a coffee cup or glass. Every view was beautiful, every need seemingly already met.
The Great Room was full, sixty or so round, elegantly decorated tables, filled with well-dressed women, chatting over glasses of still mineral water or fruit punch. Hair was uniformly perfectly blow-dried, and the preferred mode of dress was expensively elegant—well-cut dresses with bouclé jackets, or carefully matched separates. The air was thick with a heady mix of perfume. At some tables a solitary man sat flanked by women, but they seemed oddly neutered in such a largely female room.
To the casual observer—or perhaps an average man—almost nothing would have seemed amiss. A faint movement of heads, a subtle dip in the noise level as we passed, the slight pursing of lips. I walked behind Agnes, and she faltered suddenly, so that I almost collided with her back. And then I saw the table setting: Tabitha, a young man, an older man, two women I did not recognize, and, beside me, an older woman who lifted her head and looked Agnes square in the eye. As the waiter stepped forward and pulled out her seat, Agnes was seated opposite the Big Purple herself, Kathryn Gopnik.
“Good afternoon,” Agnes said, offering it up to the table as a whole and managing not to look at the first Mrs. Gopnik as she did so.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gopnik,” the man who was seated on my side of the table replied.
“Mr. Henry,” said Agnes, her smile wavering. “Tab. You didn’t say you were coming today.”
“I’m not sure we have to inform you of all our movements, do we, Agnes?” Tabitha said.
“And who might you be?” The elderly gentleman on my right turned to me. I was about to say I was Agnes’s friend from London, but realized that was now going to be impossible. “I’m Louisa,” I said. “Louisa Clark.”
“Emmett Henry,” he said, holding out a gnarled hand. “Delighted to meet you. Is that an English accent?”
“It is.” I looked up to thank a waitress who was pouring me some water.
