Still Me

by Jojo Moyes

  "For me too, Margot. I feel . . . unscrambled."

  She smiled at me before reaching down to pat Dean Martin. He was stretched out under her chair, snoring quietly. "You did the right thing, you know, with Josh. He wasn't for you."

  I didn't respond. There was nothing to say. I had spent three days thinking of the person I might have become if I had stayed with Josh--affluent, semi-American, mostly happy even, and had discovered that, after a few short weeks, Margot understood me better than I understood myself. I would have molded myself to fit him. I would have shed the clothes I loved, the things I cared most about. I would have transformed my behavior, my habits, lost in his charismatic slipstream. I would have become a corporate wife, blaming myself for the bits of me that wouldn't fit, never-endingly grateful for this Will in American form.

  I didn't think about Sam. I'd become very good at that.

  "You know," she said, "when you get to my age, the pile of regrets becomes so huge it can obscure the view terribly."

  She kept her eyes fixed on the horizon and I waited, wondering who she was addressing.

  --

  Three weeks passed uneventfully after we returned from Montauk. My life no longer felt as if it held any real certainties at all, so I had decided to live as Will had told me, simply existing in each moment, until my hand was forced again. At some point, I supposed, Margot would be either unwell enough or in debt enough that our contented little bubble would pop and I would have to book my flight home.

  Until then, it was not an unpleasant way to live. The routines that punctuated my day gave me pleasure--my runs around Central Park, my strolls with Dean Martin, preparing the evening meal for Margot, even if she didn't eat much, and our now joint nightly viewing of Wheel of Fortune, shouting letters at the Mystery Wedges. I upped my wardrobe game, embracing my New York self with a series of looks that left Lydia and her sister slack-jawed in admiration. Sometimes I wore things that Margot lent me, and sometimes I wore things I had bought from the Emporium. Every day I stood in front of the mirror in Margot's spare room and surveyed the racks I was allowed to pick from, and a part of me sparked with joy.

  I had work, of sorts, doing shifts for the girls at the Vintage Clothes Emporium while Angelica was away doing a sweep of a women's garment factory in Palm Springs that had apparently kept samples of every item it had made since 1952. I manned the till alongside Lydia, helping pale-skinned young girls into vintage prom dresses and praying the zippers would hold, while she reorganized the layout of the racks and fretted noisily about the amount of wasted space in their outlet. "You know what square footage costs now, around here?" she said, shaking her head at our lone rotating rail in the far corner. "Seriously. I would be renting out that corner as valet parking if we could work out how to get the cars in."

  I thanked a customer who had just bought a sequined tulle bolero and slammed the till drawer shut. "So why don't you let it? To a shop or something? It would give you more income."

  "Yeah, we've talked about it. It's complicated. As soon as you've got other retailers involved you need to build a partition and separate access and get insurance, and then you don't know who you got coming in at all hours . . . Strangers in our stuff. It's too risky." She chewed her gum and blew a bubble, popping it absently with a purple-nailed finger. "Plus, you know, we don't like anybody."

  --

  "Louisa!" Ashok was standing on the carpet and clapped his gloved hands together as I arrived home. "You coming to our place next Saturday? Meena wants to know."

  "Is the protest still on?"

  The two previous Saturdays I couldn't help but notice there had been a distinct dwindling of the numbers. The hopes of local residents were almost nonexistent now. The chanting had become half-hearted as the city's budgets tightened, the seasoned protesters slowly drifting away. Months after the action had started, just our little core remained, Meena rallying everyone with bottles of water and insisting it wasn't over till it was over.

  "It's still happening. You know my wife."

  "Then I'd love to. Thank you. Tell her I'll bring dessert."

  "You got it." He made a happy mm-mm sound to himself at the prospect of good food, and called as I reached the elevator, "Hey!"

  "What?"

  "Nice threads, lady."

  That day I was dressed in homage to Desperately Seeking Susan. I wore a purple silk bomber jacket with a rainbow embroidered on the back, leggings, layered vests, and an armful of bangles, which had made a pleasing jangle each time I'd whacked the till drawer shut (it wouldn't close properly unless you did).

  "You know," he said, shaking his head, "I can't believe you used to wear that golf shirt combo when you were working for the Gopniks. That was so not you."

  I hesitated as the lift door opened. I refused to use the service lift these days. "You know what, Ashok? You're so right."

  --

  Out of deference to her status as homeowner, I always knocked before I let myself into Margot's apartment, even though I had had a key for months. There was no response the first time and I had to check my reflexive panic, telling myself that she often had the radio on loud, that Ashok would have let me know if anything was wrong. Finally I let myself in. Dean Martin came skittering up the hallway to greet me, his eyes askew with joy at my arrival. I picked him up, and let his wrinkled nose snuffle all over my face.

  "Yes, hello, you. Hello, you. Where's your mum, then?" I put him down and he yapped and ran in excited circles. "Margot? Margot, where are you?"

  She came out of the living room in her Chinese silk dressing gown.

  "Margot! Are you not well?" I dropped my bag and ran to her, but she held up a palm.

  "Louisa, something miraculous has happened."

  My response popped out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop it. "You're getting better?"

  "No, no, no. Come in. Come in! Come and meet my son." She turned before I could speak and disappeared back into the living room. I walked in behind her and a tall man in a pastel sweater, the beginnings of a belly straining over his belt buckle, rose from a chair and reached across to shake my hand.

  "This is Frank Junior, my son. Frank, this is my dear friend Louisa Clark, without whom I could not have made it through the past few months."

  I tried to cover my feeling of wrong-footedness. "Oh. Uh. It--it was mutual." I leaned over to shake the hand of the woman beside him, who wore a white turtleneck sweater and had the kind of pale candyfloss hair that she might have spent a lifetime trying to control.

  "I'm Laynie," she said, and her voice was high, like one of those women who had never been able to let go of girlishness. "Frank's wife. I believe we have you to thank for our little family reunion." She dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. Her nose was tinged pink, like she had recently been crying.

  Margot reached out a hand to me. "So it turns out Vincent, the deceitful little wretch, told his father about our meetings and my--my situation."

  "Yes, the deceitful little wretch would indeed be me," said Vincent, appearing at the door with a tray. He looked relaxed and happy. "Nice to see you again, Louisa." I nodded, a half smile now fixed on my face.

  It was so odd seeing people in the apartment. I was used to the quiet, to it being just me, Margot, and Dean Martin, not Vincent in his checked shirt and Paul Smith tie coming through bearing our dinner tray, and the tall man with his legs concertinaed against the coffee table and the woman who kept gazing around the living room with slightly startled eyes, as if she had never been anywhere like this before.

  "They surprised me, you know," Margot told me, her voice croaking a little, like someone who had already talked too much. "He called up to say he was passing through and I thought it was just Vincent and then the door opened a little wider and, well, I can't . . . You must all think me so shocking. I hadn't even got around to getting dressed, had I? I'd quite forgotten until just now. But we have had the loveliest afternoon. I can't begin to tell you." Margot reached out her
other hand and her son took it, and squeezed it. His chin quivered a little with suppressed emotion.

  "Oh, it really has been magical," said Laynie. "We have so much to catch up on. I honestly think this was the Lord's work bringing us all together."

  "Well, Him and Facebook," said Vincent. "Would you like some coffee, Louisa? There's some left in the pot. I just brought some cookies out in case Margot wanted to eat something."

  "She won't eat those," I said, before I could stop myself.

  "Oh, she's quite right. I don't eat cookies, Vincent dear. Those are really for Dean Martin. The chocolate drops aren't actual chocolate, see?"

  Margot barely drew breath. She seemed completely transformed. It was as if she'd lost a decade overnight. The brittle light behind her eyes had gone, replaced by something soft, and she couldn't stop talking, her tone babbling and merry.

  I backed toward the door. "Well, I . . . don't want to get in the way. I'm sure you all have a lot to discuss. Margot, give me a shout when you need me." I stood, waving my hands uselessly. "It's lovely to meet you all. I'm so pleased for you."

  "We think it would be the right thing if Mom came back with us," said Frank Junior.

  There was a brief silence.

  "Came back where?" I said.

  "To Tuckahoe," said Laynie. "To our home."

  "For how long?" I said.

  They looked at each other.

  "I mean how long will she be staying? Just so I can pack for her."

  Frank Junior was still holding his mother's hand. "Miss Clark, we've lost a lot of time, Mom and I. And we both think it would be a fine thing if we could make the most of what we have. So we need to make . . . arrangements." The words held a hint of possession, as if he were already telling me of his greater claim over her.

  I looked at Margot, who looked back at me, clear-eyed and serene. "That's right," she said.

  "Hold on. You want to leave . . . ," I said, and, when nobody spoke, ". . . here? The apartment?"

  Vincent's expression was sympathetic. He turned to his father. "Why don't we head out for now, Dad?" he said. "Everyone has a lot to process. We certainly have a lot to work out. And I think Louisa and Grandma need to have a talk too."

  He touched my shoulder lightly as he left. It felt like an apology.

  --

  "You know, I thought Frank's wife was actually quite pleasant, though not a clue how to dress, poor thing. He had such awful girlfriends when he was younger, according to my mother. She wrote me letters for a while describing them. But a white cotton turtleneck. Can you imagine the horror? A white turtleneck."

  The memory of this travesty--or perhaps the speed at which Margot was talking--brought on a bout of coughing. I fetched a glass of water and waited until she recovered. They had left within minutes after Vincent had spoken up. I got the feeling it was done at his urging, and that neither of his parents really wanted to leave Margot.

  I sat down on the chair. "I don't understand."

  "This must all seem very sudden to you. It was just the most extraordinary thing, Louisa dear. We talked and talked, and we may even have shed a tear or two. He's just the same! It was like we'd never been apart. He's the same--so serious and quiet but actually quite gentle, just as he was as a boy. And that wife of his is just the same--but then, out of the blue, they asked me to come and stay with them. I got the distinct feeling they had all discussed it before they came. And I said I would." She looked up at me. "Oh, come on, you and I know it won't be forever. There is a very nice place two miles from their home that I can move to when it all becomes too difficult."

  "Difficult?" I whispered.

  "Louisa, don't get all sappy on me again, for heaven's sake. When I can't do things for myself. When I'm properly unwell. Honestly, I don't imagine I'll be with my son for more than a few months. I suspect that's why they felt so comfortable asking me." She let out a dry chuckle.

  "But--but I don't understand. You said you'd never leave this place. I mean, what about all your things? You can't just go."

  She gave me a look. "That's exactly what I can do." She took a breath, her bony old chest lifting painfully underneath the soft fabric. "I'm dying, Louisa. I'm an old woman and I'm not going to get an awful lot older, and my son, who I thought was lost to me, has been gracious enough to swallow his pain and his pride and reach out. Can you imagine? Can you imagine what it is to have someone do that for you?"

  I thought of Frank Junior, his eyes on his mother, their chairs pressed together, his hand holding hers tightly.

  "Why on earth would I choose to stay in this place a moment longer if I have a chance to spend time with him? To wake up and see him over breakfast and chat about all the things I've missed and see his children . . . and Vincent . . . dear Vincent. Do you know he has a brother? I have two grandchildren. Two! Anyway. I got to say sorry to my son. Do you know how important that was? I got to say sorry. Oh, Louisa, you can hang on to your hurt out of some misplaced sense of pride, or you can just let go and relish whatever precious time you have."

  She placed her hands firmly on her knees. "So that's what I plan to do."

  "But you can't. You can't just go." I had started to cry. I'm not sure where it came from.

  "Oh, darling girl, I hope you're not going to fuss about it. Now, now. No tears, please. I have a favor to ask."

  I wiped my nose.

  "This is the difficult bit." She swallowed, with some effort. "They won't take Dean Martin. They're very apologetic but there are allergies or some such. And I was going to tell them not to be ridiculous and that he had to come with me but, to be honest, I've been rather anxious about what will happen to him, you know, after I've gone. He's got years left, after all. Certainly a lot longer than I have.

  "So . . . I wondered whether you would take him for me. He seems to like you. Goodness knows why after how dreadfully you used to cart the poor creature around. The animal must be the very soul of forgiveness."

  I stared at her through my tears. "You want me to take Dean Martin?"

  "I do."

  I looked down at the little dog, who waited expectantly at her feet.

  "I'm asking you, as my friend, if . . . if you would consider it. For me."

  She was peering at me intently, her pale eyes scanning mine, her lips pursed. My face crumpled. I was glad for her, but I felt heartbroken at the thought of losing her. I didn't want to be on my own again.

  "Yes."

  "You will?"

  "Of course." And then I started to cry again.

  Margot sagged with relief. "Oh, I knew you would. I knew it. And I know you'll take care of him." She smiled, for once not scolding me for my tears, and leaned forward, her fingers closing over my hand. "You're that kind of person."

  --

  They came two weeks later to take her away. I had thought it faintly indecent haste, but I supposed that none of us was sure quite how much time she had left.

  Frank Junior had paid off the mountain of management charges--a situation that could be seen as only slightly less altruistic when you realized that this meant he could inherit the apartment rather than it being claimed by Mr. Ovitz--but Margot chose to see it as an act of love and I had no reason not to do the same. He certainly seemed happy to have her with him again. The couple fussed over her, checking that she was okay, that she had all her medication, that she wasn't too tired or dizzy or feeling unwell or in need of water, until she flapped her hands and rolled her eyes in mock irritation. But she was going through the motions. She had barely stopped talking about him since she had told me.

  I was to stay and look after the place "for the foreseeable," according to Frank Junior. I think that meant until Margot died, although nobody said it out loud. Apparently the Realtor had said that nobody would want to rent it as it stood, and it was a little unseemly to gut it before the "foreseeable" so I had been awarded the role of temporary caretaker. Margot also made the point several times that it would help Dean Martin to have some stability while he
adjusted to his new situation. I'm not sure Frank Junior felt that the dog's mental well-being was quite as high on his own list of concerns.

  She took only two suitcases and wore one of her favorite suits to travel, the jade boucle jacket and skirt with the matching pillbox hat. I dressed it with a midnight blue Saint-Laurent scarf knotted around her narrow neck, to disguise the way it now emerged, painfully bony, from her collar, and dug out the turquoise cabochon earrings as a final touch. I worried that she might be too hot but she seemed to have grown ever tinier and frailer and complained of cold even on the warmest of days. I stood on the sidewalk outside, Dean Martin in my arms, watching as her son and Vincent oversaw the packing up of her cases. She checked that they had her jewelry boxes--she planned to give some of the more valuable items to Frank Junior's wife, and some to Vincent "for when he gets married" and then, apparently satisfied that they were safely stowed, she walked over to me slowly, leaning heavily on her stick. "Now. Dear. I've left you a letter with all my instructions. I haven't told Ashok I'm going--I don't want any fuss. But I have left a little something for him in the kitchen. I'd be grateful if you could pass it on once we're gone."

  I nodded.

  "I've written everything you need for Dean Martin in a separate letter. It's very important that you stick to his routine. It's how he likes things."

  "You mustn't worry. I'll make sure he's happy."

  "And none of those liver treats. He begs for them but they do make him sick."

  "No liver treats."

  Margot coughed, perhaps with the effort of talking, and waited for a moment until she could be sure of her breath. She steadied herself on her cane and looked up at the building that had housed her for more than half a century, holding up a frail hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Then she turned stiffly and surveyed Central Park, the view that had been hers for so long.

  Frank Junior was calling from the car, stooping so that he could see us more clearly. His wife stood beside the passenger door in her pale blue windbreaker, her hands pressed together with anxiety. She was apparently not a woman who liked the big city.

  "Mom?"

  "One moment, thank you, dear."

  Margot moved so that she stood directly in front of me. She reached out a hand, and as I held the dog, she stroked his head three, four times with her thin, marbled fingers. "You're a good fellow, aren't you, Dean Martin?" she said softly. "A very good fellow."