فصل 09

9

To: SillyLily@gmail.com

From: BusyBee@gmail.com

Hey, Lily!

In haste as I’m tapping this out on the subway (I’m always in haste these days) but lovely to hear from you. Glad school is going so well, though it sounds like you were quite lucky with the smoking thing. Mrs Traynor is right – it would be a shame if you got expelled before you’d even taken your exams.

But I’m not going to lecture you. New York is amazing. I’m enjoying every moment. And, yes, it would be lovely if you came out here but I think you’d have to stay in a hotel so you might want to speak to your parents first. Also, I’m quite busy as my hours with the Gopniks are long so I wouldn’t have much time to hang out just now.

Sam is fine, thanks. No, he hasn’t dumped me yet. In fact he’s here right now. He heads home later today. You can talk to him about borrowing his motorbike when he’s back. I think that may be one for the two of you to sort out between you.

Okay – my stop is coming up. Give Mrs T my love. Tell her I’ve been doing the things your dad did in his letters (not all of them: I haven’t been on any dates with leggy blonde PR girls).

Lou xxx

My alarm went off at six thirty a.m., a brittle micro-siren breaking the silence. I had to be back at the Gopniks’ for seven thirty. I let out a soft groan as I reached across to the bedside table and fumbled to turn it off. I had figured it would take me fifteen minutes to walk back to Central Park. I mentally ran through a rapid to-do list, wondering if there was any shampoo left in the bathroom and whether I would need to iron my top.

Sam’s arm reached across and pulled me towards him. ‘Don’t go,’ he said sleepily.

‘I have to.’ His arm was pinning me.

‘Be late.’ He opened one eye. He smelt warm and sweet and he kept his gaze on mine as he slowly slid a heavy, muscular leg over me.

It was impossible to refuse him. Sam was feeling better. Quite a lot better, apparently.

‘I need to get dressed.’

He was kissing my collarbone, feathery kisses that made me shiver. His mouth, light and focused, began to trace a pattern downwards. He looked up at me from under the cover, one eyebrow raised. ‘I’d forgotten these scars. I really love these scars here.’ He lowered his head and kissed the silvery ridges on my hip that marked my surgery, making me squirm, then disappeared.

‘Sam, I need to go. Really.’ My fingers closed around the bedspread. ‘Sam … Sam … I really … oh.’

Some time later, my skin prickling with drying sweat, breathing hard, I lay on my stomach wearing a stupid smile, my muscles aching in unexpected places. My hair was over my face but I couldn’t summon the energy to push it away. A strand rose and fell with my breath. Sam lay beside me. His hand felt its way across the sheet to mine. ‘I missed you,’ he said. He shifted and rolled over so that he was on top of me, holding me in place. ‘Louisa Clark,’ he murmured, and his voice, impossibly deep, resonated somewhere inside me. ‘You do something to me.’

‘I think it was you who did something to me, if we’re going to get technical about it.’

His face was filled with tenderness. I lifted my own so that I could kiss him. It was as if the last forty-eight hours had fallen away. I was in the right place, with the right man, and his arms were around me and his body was beautiful and familiar. I ran a finger down his cheek, then leant in and kissed him slowly.

‘Don’t do that again,’ he said, his eyes on mine.

‘Why?’

‘Because then I won’t be able to help myself and you’re already late and I don’t want to be responsible for you losing your job.’

I turned my head to see the alarm. I blinked. ‘Quarter to eight? Are you kidding? How the hell is it a quarter to eight?’ I wriggled out from under him, my arms flapping, and hopped to the bathroom. ‘Oh, my God. I am so late. Oh, no – oh, no no no no no.’

I threw myself under a shower so rapid it’s possible the droplets didn’t make contact with my body, and when I emerged he stood and held out items of clothing for me so that I could slide into them.

‘Shoes. Where are my shoes?’

He held them up. ‘Hair,’ he said, gesturing. ‘You need to comb your hair. It’s all … well …’

‘What?’

‘Matted. Sexy. Just-had-sex hair. I’ll pack your things,’ he said. As I ran for the door he caught me by the arm and pulled me to him. ‘Or you could, you know, just be a tiny bit later.’

‘I am later. So later.’

‘It’s just once. She’s your new best mate. They’re hardly going to fire you.’ He put his arms around me and kissed me and ran his lips down the side of my neck so that I shivered. ‘And this is my last morning here …’

‘Sam …’

‘Five minutes.’

‘It’s never five minutes. Oh, man – I can’t believe I’m saying that like it’s a bad thing.’

He growled with frustration. ‘Dammit. I feel okay today. Like really okay.’

‘Believe me, I can tell.’

‘Sorry,’ he said. And then: ‘No, I’m not. Not remotely.’

I grinned at him, closed my eyes and kissed him back, feeling even then how easy it would be just to topple back onto the Burgundy Bedspread of Doom and lose myself again. ‘Me either. I’ll see you later, though.’ I wriggled out of his arms and ran out of the room and along the corridor, listening to his yelled ‘I love you!’ And thinking that despite potential bedbugs, unsanitary bedspreads and inadequate bathroom soundproofing, actually, this was a very nice hotel indeed.

Mr Gopnik was suffering acute pain in his legs and had been awake half the night, which had left Agnes anxious and fractious. She had had a bad weekend at the country club, the other women freezing her out of conversation and gossiping about her in the spa. From the way Nathan whispered this as I passed him in the lobby, it sounded like thirteen-year-old girls on a toxic sleepover.

‘You’re late,’ Agnes growled, as she returned from her run with George, mopping her face with a towel. In the next room I could hear Mr Gopnik’s uncharacteristically raised voice on the telephone. She didn’t look at me as she spoke.

‘I’m sorry. It’s because my …’ I began, but she had already walked past.

‘She’s freaking out about the charity reception this evening,’ murmured Michael, heading past me with an armful of dry-cleaning and a clipboard.

I racked my mental Rolodex. ‘Children’s Cancer Hospital?’

‘The very one,’ he said. ‘She’s meant to bring a doodle.’

‘A doodle?’

‘A little picture. On a special card. They auction them off at the dinner.’

‘So how hard is that? She can do a smiley face or a flower or something. I’ll do it if she likes. I can do a mean smiling horse. I can put a hat on it too, with the ears sticking out.’ I was still full of Sam and found it hard to see the problem in anything.

He looked at me. ‘Sweetheart. You think “doodle” means actual doodle? Oh, no. It has to be real art.’

‘I got a B in GCSE art.’

‘You’re so sweet. No, Louisa, they don’t do it themselves. Every artist between here and Brooklyn Bridge has apparently spent the weekend creating some delicious little pen-and-ink study for cold, hard cash. She only found out last night. Overheard two of the Witches talking about it before she left the club and when she asked them they told her the truth. So guess what you’re doing today? Have a great morning!’

He blew me a kiss and hurried out of the door.

While Agnes showered and had breakfast I did an online search of ‘artists in New York’. It was about as much use as searching ‘dogs with tails’. The few who had websites and bothered to pick up the phone answered my request like I’d suggested they waltz naked around the nearest shopping mall. ‘You want Mr Fischl to do a … doodle? For a charity lunch?’ Two put the phone down on me. Artists, it turned out, took themselves very seriously.

I called everyone I could find. I called gallerists in Chelsea. I called the New York Academy of Art. All the while I tried not to think about what Sam was doing. He would be having a nice brunch in that diner we’d talked about. He would be walking the High Line, like we were meant to. I needed to be back in time to take that ferry ride with him before he left for England. To do it at dusk would be romantic. I pictured us, his arm around me, gazing up at the Statue of Liberty, dropping a kiss on my hair. I dragged my thoughts back and racked my brains. And then I thought about the only other person I knew in New York who might be able to help.

‘Josh?’

‘Speaking?’ The sound of a million male voices behind him.

‘It’s – it’s Louisa Clark. We met at the Yellow Ball?’

‘Louisa! Great to hear from you! How are you doing?’ He sounded so relaxed, as if strange women called him every day of the week. They probably did. ‘Hold on. Let me take this outside … So what’s up?’

He had this way of making you feel instantly at ease. I wondered if Americans were born with it.

‘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 towards the Midtown Tunnel.

As we sat in 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.

Wish I was with you.

A pause.

So what time do you think you’ll get off? I worked out I should leave for the airport by seven.

Hoping for four. Will stay in touch xxxxx

New York traffic meant it took us an hour to get to the address Josh had given me: a scruffy, featureless former office building at the back of an industrial block. Garry pulled up with a sceptical sniff. ‘You sure this is the place?’ he said, turning with effort in his seat.

I checked the address. ‘That’s what it says.’

‘I will stay in car, Louisa. I am going to call Leonard again.’

The upper corridor was lined with doors, a couple of which were open, music blaring. I walked along slowly, checking the numbers. Some had tins of white emulsion paint outside, and I walked past an open door revealing a woman in baggy jeans stretching a canvas over a huge wood frame.

‘Hi! Do you know where Steven is?’

She fired a battery of staples from a huge metal gun into the frame. ‘Fourteen. But I think he just went out for food.’

Fourteen was at the far end. I knocked, then pushed the door tentatively and walked in. The studio was lined with canvases, two huge tables covered with sloppy trays of oil paints and battered pastel crayons. The walls were hung with beautiful oversized pictures of women in various states of undress, some unfinished. The air smelt of paint, turpentine and stale cigarette smoke.

‘Hello.’

I turned to see a man holding a white plastic bag. He was around thirty, his features regular but his gaze intense, his chin unshaven, his clothes crumpled and utilitarian, as if he had barely noticed what he’d put on. He looked like a male model in a particularly esoteric fashion magazine.

‘Hi. Louisa Clark. We spoke on the phone earlier? Well, we didn’t – your friend Josh told me to come.’

‘Oh, yeah. You want to buy a drawing.’

‘Not as such. We need you to do a drawing. Just a small one.’

He sat down on a small stool, opened his carton of noodles and started to eat, hoicking them into his mouth with rapid strokes of his chopsticks.

‘It’s for a charity thing. People do these doo– small drawings,’ I corrected myself. ‘And apparently a lot of the top artists in New York are doing them for other people so –’

‘ “Top artists”,’ he repeated.

‘Well. Yes. Apparently it’s not the done thing to do your own and Agnes – my employer – really needs someone brilliant to do one for her.’ My voice sounded high and anxious. ‘I mean, it shouldn’t take you long. We – we don’t want anything fancy …’

He was staring at me and I heard my voice trail off, thin and uncertain.

‘We – we can pay. Quite well,’ I added. ‘And it’s for charity.’

He took another mouthful, peering intently into his carton. I stood by the window and waited.

‘Yeah,’ he said, when he had finished chewing. ‘I’m not your man.’

‘But Josh said –’

‘You want me to create something to satisfy the ego of some woman who can’t draw and doesn’t want to be shown up in front of her ladies who lunch …’ He shook his head. ‘You want me to draw you a greetings card.’

‘Mr Lipkott. Please. I probably haven’t explained it very well. I –’

‘You explained it just fine.’

‘But Josh said –’

‘Josh said nothing about greetings cards. I hate that charity dinner shit.’

‘Me also.’ Agnes stood in the doorway. She took a step into the room, glancing down to make sure she was not treading onto one of the tubes of paint or bits of paper that littered the floor. She held out a long, pale hand. ‘Agnes Gopnik. I hate this charity shit too.’

Steven Lipkott stood slowly and then, almost as if it were an impulse from a more courtly age that he had little control over, raised his hand to shake hers. He couldn’t take his eyes from her face. I had forgotten that Agnes got you like that at first meeting.

‘Mr Lipkott – is that right? Lipkott? I know this is not a normal thing for you. But I have to go to this thing with room of witches. You know? Actual witches. And I draw like three-year-old in mittens. If I have to go and show them my drawing they bitch about me more than they do already.’ She sat down and pulled a cigarette from her handbag. She reached across and picked up a lighter that sat on one of his painting tables and lit her cigarette. Steven Lipkott was still watching her, his chopsticks loose in his hand.

‘I am not from this place. I am Polish masseuse. There is no shame in this. But I do not want to give these witches chance to look down on me again. Do you know how it is to have people look down on you?’ She exhaled, gazing at him, her head tilted, so that smoke trickled horizontally towards him. I thought he might actually have inhaled.

‘I – uh – yeah.’

‘So it is one small thing I am asking you. To help me. I know this is not your thing and that you are serious artist, but I really need help. And I will pay you very good money.’

The room fell silent. A phone vibrated in my back pocket. I tried to ignore it. For that moment I knew I should not move. We three stood there for an eternity.

‘Okay,’ he said finally. ‘But on one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘I draw you.’

For a minute nobody spoke. Agnes raised an eyebrow, then took a slow drag of her cigarette, her eyes not leaving his. ‘Me.’

‘Can’t be the first time someone’s asked.’

‘Why me?’

‘Don’t play the ingénue.’

He smiled then, and she kept her face straight, as if deciding whether to be insulted. Her eyes dropped to her feet, and, when she lifted them, there it was, her smile, small, speculative, a prize he believed he had won.

She stubbed out her cigarette on the floor. ‘How long will it take?’

He shoved the carton of noodles to one side and reached for a white pad of thick paper. It might have been only me who noticed the way his voice lowered in volume. ‘Depends how good you are at keeping still.’

Minutes later I was back in the car. I closed the door. Garry was listening to his tapes.

‘Por favor, habla m?s despacio.’

‘Pohr fah-VOR, AH-blah mahs dehs-PAHS-ee-oh.’ He slapped the dashboard with a fat palm. ‘Ah, crap. Lemme try that again. AHblamahsdehsPAHSeeoh.’ He practised three more lines, then turned to me. ‘She gonna be long?’

I stared out of the window at the blank windows of the second floor. ‘I really hope not,’ I said.

Agnes finally emerged at a quarter to four, an hour and three-quarters after Garry and I had run out of our already limited conversation. After watching a cable comedy show downloaded on his iPad (he didn’t offer to share it with me) he had nodded off, his chins resting on the bulk of his chest as he snored lightly. I sat in the back of the car growing increasingly tense as the minutes ticked by, sending periodic messages to Sam that were variations on: She’s not back yet. Still not back. Omigod, what on earth is she doing in there? He had had lunch in a tiny deli across town and said he was so hungry he could eat fifteen horses. He sounded cheerful, relaxed, and every word we exchanged told me I was in the wrong place, that I should be beside him, leaning against him, feeling his voice rumble in my ear. I had started to hate Agnes.

And suddenly there she was, striding out of the building with a broad smile and a flat package under her arm.

‘Oh, thank God,’ I said.

Garry woke with a start and hurried around the car to open the door for her. She slid in calmly, as if she had been gone two minutes instead of two hours. She brought with her the faint scents of cigarettes and turpentine.

‘We need to stop at McNally Jackson on the way back. To get some pretty paper to wrap it in.’

‘We have wrapping paper at the –’

‘Steven told me about this special hand-pressed paper. I want to wrap it in this special paper. Garry, you know the place I mean? We can drop down to SoHo on the way back, yes?’ She waved a hand.

I sat back, faintly despairing. Garry set off, bumping the limo gently over the potholed car park as he headed back to what he considered civilization.

We arrived back at Fifth Avenue at four forty. As Agnes climbed out, I hurried out beside her, clutching the bag with the special paper.

‘Agnes, I – I was wondering … what you said about me leaving early today …’

‘I don’t know whether to wear the Temperley or the Badgley Mischka this evening. What do you think?’

I tried to recall either dress. Failed. I was trying to calculate how long it would take me to get over to Times Square, where Sam was now waiting. ‘The Temperley, I think. Definitely. It’s perfect. Agnes – you remember you said I might be able to leave early today?’

‘But it’s such a dark blue. I’m not sure this blue is a good colour on me. And the shoes that go with it rub on my heel.’

‘We talked last week. Would it be okay? It’s just I really want to see Sam off at the airport.’ I fought to keep the irritation from my voice.

‘Sam?’ She nodded a greeting at Ashok.

‘My boyfriend.’

She considered this. ‘Mm. Okay. Oh, they are going to be so impressed with this drawing. Steven is genius, you know? Actual genius.’

‘So I can go?’

‘Sure.’

My shoulders sagged with relief. If I left in ten minutes I could get the subway south and be with him by five thirty. That would still give us an hour and a bit together. Better than nothing.

The lift doors closed behind us. Agnes opened a compact and checked her lipstick, pouting at her reflection. ‘But maybe just stay until I’m dressed. I need second opinion on this Temperley.’

Agnes changed her outfit four times. I was too late to meet Sam in Midtown, Times Square or anywhere else. Instead I got to JFK fifteen minutes before he had to head through security. I shoved my way past the other passengers to where I could see him standing in front of the departures board, and hurled myself through the airport doors and against his back. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

We held each other for a minute.

‘What happened?’

‘Agnes happened.’

‘Wasn’t she going to let you out early? I thought she was your mate.’

‘She was just obsessed by this artwork thing and it all went … Oh, God, it was maddening.’ I threw my hands into the air. ‘What am I even doing in this stupid job, Sam? She made me wait because she couldn’t work out what dress to wear. At least Will actually needed me.’

He tilted his head and touched his forehead to mine. ‘We had this morning.’

I kissed him, reaching around his neck so that I could place my whole self against him. We stayed there, eyes closed, as the airport moved and swayed around us.

And then my phone rang.

‘I’m ignoring it,’ I said, into his chest.

It continued to ring, insistently.

‘It might be her.’ He held me gently away from him.

I let out a low growl, then pulled my phone from my back pocket and put it to my ear. ‘Agnes?’

‘It’s Josh. I was just calling to see how today went.’

‘Josh! Um … oh. Yes, it was fine. Thank you!’ I turned away slightly, putting my hand up to my other ear. I felt Sam stiffen beside me.

‘So he did the drawing for you?’

‘He did. She’s really happy. Thank you so much for organizing it. Listen, I’m in the middle of something right now, but thank you. It really was incredibly kind of you.’

‘Glad it worked out. Listen, give me a call, yeah? Let’s grab a coffee sometime.’

‘Sure!’ I ended the call to find Sam watching me.

‘Josh,’ he said.

I put the phone back into my pocket.

‘The guy you met at the ball.’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Okay.’

‘He helped me sort this drawing for Agnes today. I was desperate.’

‘So you had his number.’

‘It’s New York. Everyone has everyone’s number.’

He dragged his hand over the top of his head and turned away.

‘It’s nothing. Really.’ I took a step towards him, pulled him by his belt buckle. I could feel the weekend sliding away from me again. ‘Sam … Sam …’

He deflated, put his arms around me. He rested his chin on the top of my head and moved his from side to side. ‘This is …’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know it is. But I love you and you love me and at least we managed to do a bit of the getting-naked thing. And it was great, wasn’t it? The getting-naked thing?’

‘For, like, five minutes.’

‘Best five minutes of the last four weeks. Five minutes that will keep me going for the next four.’

‘Except it’s seven.’

I slid my hands into his back pockets. ‘Don’t let’s end this badly. Please. I don’t want you to go away angry because of some stupid call from someone who is literally nothing to me.’

His face softened when he held my gaze, as it always did. It was one of the things I loved about him, the way his features, so brutal in repose, melted when he looked at me. ‘I’m not pissed off at you. I’m pissed off at myself. And airline food or burritos or whatever it was. And your woman there who can’t apparently put on a dress by herself.’

‘I’ll be back for Christmas. For a whole week.’

Sam frowned. He took my face in his hands. They were warm and slightly rough. We stood there for a moment, and then we kissed, and some decades later he straightened up and glanced at the board.

‘And now you have to go.’

‘And now I have to go.’

I swallowed the lump that had risen in my throat. He kissed me once more, then swung his bag over his shoulder. I stood on the concourse, watching the space where he had been for a full minute after security had swallowed him.

In general, I’m not a moody person. I’m not very good at the whole door-slamming, scowling, eye-rolling thing. But that evening I made my way back to the city, pushed my way through the crowds on the subway platform, elbows out, and scowled like a native. Throughout the journey I found myself checking the time. He’s in the departure lounge. He’ll be boarding. And … he’s gone. The moment his plane was due to take off I felt something sink inside me and my mood darkened even further. I picked up some takeout sushi and walked from the subway station to the Gopniks’ building. When I got to my little room I sat and stared at the container, then at the wall, and knew I couldn’t stay there alone with my thoughts so I knocked on Nathan’s door.

‘C’min!’

Nathan was watching American football, holding a beer. He was wearing a pair of surfer shorts and a T-shirt. He looked up at me expectantly, and with the faintest of delays, in the way people do when they’re letting you know that they’re really locked into something else.

‘Can I eat my dinner in here with you?’

He tore his gaze away from the screen again. ‘Bad day?’

I nodded.

‘Need a hug?’

I shook my head. ‘Just a virtual one. If you’re nice to me I’ll probably cry.’

‘Ah. Your man gone home, has he?’

‘It was a disaster, Nathan. He was sick for pretty much the whole thing and then Agnes wouldn’t let me have the time off she promised me today so I barely got to see him and when I did it kept getting … awkward between us.’

Nathan turned down the television with a sigh, and patted the side of the bed. I climbed up, and placed my takeout bag on my lap where, later, I would discover soy sauce had leaked through onto my work trousers. I rested my head on his shoulder.

‘Long-distance relationships are tough,’ Nathan pronounced, as if he was the first person to have considered such a thing. Then he added, ‘Like, really tough.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s not just the sex, and the inevitable jealousy –’

‘We’re not jealous people.’

‘But he’s not going to be the first person you tell stuff to. The day-to-day bits and pieces. And that stuff is important.’

He proffered his beer and I took a swig, handing it back to him. ‘We did know it was going to be hard. I mean we talked about all this before I left. But you know what’s really bugging me?’

He dragged his gaze back from the screen. ‘Go on.’

‘Agnes knew how much I wanted to spend time with Sam. We’d talked about it. She was the one saying we had to be together, that we shouldn’t be apart, blah-blah-blah. And then she made me stay with her till the absolute last minute.’

‘That’s the job, Lou. They come first.’

‘But she knew how important it was to me.’

‘Maybe.’

‘She’s meant to be my friend.’

Nathan raised an eyebrow. ‘Lou. The Traynors were not normal employers. Will was not a normal employer. Neither are the Gopniks. These people may act nice, but ultimately you have to remember this is a power relationship. It’s a business transaction.’ He took a swig of his beer. ‘You know what happened to the Gopniks’ last social secretary? Agnes told Old Man Gopnik that she was talking about her behind her back, spreading secrets. So they sacked her. After twenty-two years. They sacked her.’

‘And was she?’

‘Was she what?’

‘Spreading secrets?’

‘I don’t know. Not the point, though, is it?’

I didn’t want to contradict him but to explain why Agnes and I were different would have meant betraying her. So I said nothing.

Nathan seemed about to say something, then changed his mind.

‘What?’

‘Look … nobody can have everything.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is a really great job, right? I mean, you might not think that tonight, but you’ve got a great situation in the heart of New York, a good wage and a decent employer. You get to go to all sorts of great places, and some occasional perks. They bought you a nearly-three-thousand-dollar ball dress, right? I got to go to the Bahamas with Mr G a couple of months ago. Five-star hotel, beachfront room, the lot. Just for a couple of hours’ work a day. So we’re lucky. But in the long term, the cost of all that might turn out to be a relationship with someone whose life is completely different and a million miles away. That’s the choice you make when you head out.’

I stared at him.

‘I just think you’ve got to be realistic about these things.’

‘You’re not really helping, Nathan.’

‘I’m being straight with you. And, hey, look on the bright side. I heard you did a great job today with the drawing. Mr G told me he was really impressed.’

‘They really liked it?’ I tried to suppress my glow of pleasure.

‘Aw, man. Seriously. Loved it. She’s going to knock those charity ladies dead.’

I leant against him, and he switched the volume back up. ‘Thanks, Nathan,’ I said, and opened my sushi. ‘You’re a mate.’

He grimaced slightly. ‘Yeah. That whole fishy thing. Any chance you could wait until you’re in your own room?’

I closed my sushi box. He was right. Nobody could have everything.