‘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 were wearing armour.
‘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-panelled 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.
‘How very delightful. And are you over visiting?’
‘Louisa works as Agnes’s assistant, Emmett.’ Tabitha’s voice lifted across the table. ‘Agnes has developed the most extraordinary habit of bringing her staff to social occasions.’
My cheeks flooded with colour. I felt the burn of Kathryn Gopnik’s scrutiny, along with the eyes of the rest of the table.
Emmett considered this. ‘Well, you know, my Dora took her nurse Libby with her absolutely everywhere for the last ten years. Restaurants, the theatre, wherever we went. She used to say old Libby was a better conversationalist than I was.’ He patted my hand and chuckled, and several other people at the table joined in obligingly. ‘I dare say she was right.’
And, just like that, I was saved from social ignominy by an eighty-six-year-old man. Emmett Henry chatted to me through the shrimp starter, telling me about his long association with the country club, his years as a lawyer in Manhattan, his retirement to a senior citizens’ facility a short distance away.
‘I come here every day, you know. It keeps me active, and there are always people to talk to. It’s my home from home.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, peering behind me. Several heads immediately turned away. ‘I can see why you’d want to come.’ Agnes seemed outwardly composed but I could detect a slight tremor to her hands.
‘Oh, this is a very historic building, dear.’ Emmett was gesturing to the side of the room where a plaque stood. ‘It dates from …’ he paused to ensure I had the full impact, then pronounced carefully ‘… 1937.’
I didn’t like to tell him that on our street in England we had council housing older than that. I think Mum might even have a pair of tights older than that. I nodded, smiled, ate my chicken with wild mushrooms and wondered if there was any way I could move closer to Agnes, who was clearly miserable.
The meal dragged. Emmett told me endless tales of the club, and amusing things said and done by people I had never heard of, and occasionally Agnes looked up and I smiled at her, but I could see her sinking. Glances flickered surreptitiously towards our table and heads dipped towards heads. The two Mrs Gopniks sitting inches away from each other! Can you imagine! After the main course, I excused myself from my seat.
‘Agnes, would you mind showing me where the Ladies is?’ I said. I figured even ten minutes away from this room would help.
Before she could answer, Kathryn Gopnik placed her napkin on the table and turned to me. ‘I’ll show you, dear. I’m headed that way.’ She picked up her handbag and stood beside me, waiting. I glanced at Agnes, but she didn’t move.
Agnes nodded. ‘You go. I’ll – finish my chicken,’ she said.
I followed Mrs Gopnik through the tables of the Great Room and out into the hallway, my mind racing. We walked along a carpeted corridor, me a few paces behind her, and stopped at the Ladies. She opened the mahogany door and stood back, allowing me in before her.
‘Thank you,’ I muttered, and headed into a cubicle. I didn’t even want to wee. I sat on the seat: if I stayed there long enough she might leave before I came out, but when I emerged she was at the basins, touching up her lipstick. Her gaze slid towards me as I washed my hands.
‘So you live in my old home,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ There didn’t seem much point in lying about it.
She pursed her lips, then, satisfied, closed her lipstick. ‘This must all feel rather awkward for you.’
‘I just do my job.’
‘Mm.’ She took out a small hairbrush and dragged it lightly over her hair. I wondered if it would be rude to leave, or if etiquette said I should also return to the table with her. I dried my hands and leant toward the mirror, checking under my eyes for smudges and taking as much time as possible.
‘How is my husband?’
I blinked.
‘Leonard. How is he? Surely you’re not betraying any great confidence by telling me that.’ Her reflection looked out at me.
‘I … I don’t see him much. But he seems fine.’
‘I was wondering why he wasn’t here. Whether his arthritis had flared up again.’
‘Oh. No. I think he has a work thing today.’
‘A “work thing”. Well. I suppose that’s good news.’ She placed her hairbrush carefully back in her bag and pulled out a powder compact. She patted her nose once, twice, on each side, before closing it. I was running out of things to do. I rummaged in my bag, trying to remember if I had brought a powder compact with me. And then Mrs Gopnik turned to face me. ‘Is he happy?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s a straightforward question.’
My heart bumped awkwardly against my ribcage.
Her voice was mellifluous, even. ‘Tab won’t talk to me about him. She’s quite angry at her father still, though she loves him desperately. Always was a daddy’s girl. So I don’t think it’s possible for her to paint an accurate picture.’
‘Mrs Gopnik, with respect I really don’t think it’s my place to –’
She turned her head away. ‘No. I suppose not.’ She placed her compact carefully in her handbag. ‘I’m pretty sure I can guess what you’ve been told about me, Miss …?’
‘Clark.’
‘Miss Clark. And I’m sure you’re also aware that life is rarely black and white.’
‘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-panelled 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.
‘How very delightful. And are you over visiting?’
‘Louisa works as Agnes’s assistant, Emmett.’ Tabitha’s voice lifted across the table. ‘Agnes has developed the most extraordinary habit of bringing her staff to social occasions.’
My cheeks flooded with colour. I felt the burn of Kathryn Gopnik’s scrutiny, along with the eyes of the rest of the table.
Emmett considered this. ‘Well, you know, my Dora took her nurse Libby with her absolutely everywhere for the last ten years. Restaurants, the theatre, wherever we went. She used to say old Libby was a better conversationalist than I was.’ He patted my hand and chuckled, and several other people at the table joined in obligingly. ‘I dare say she was right.’
And, just like that, I was saved from social ignominy by an eighty-six-year-old man. Emmett Henry chatted to me through the shrimp starter, telling me about his long association with the country club, his years as a lawyer in Manhattan, his retirement to a senior citizens’ facility a short distance away.
‘I come here every day, you know. It keeps me active, and there are always people to talk to. It’s my home from home.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, peering behind me. Several heads immediately turned away. ‘I can see why you’d want to come.’ Agnes seemed outwardly composed but I could detect a slight tremor to her hands.
‘Oh, this is a very historic building, dear.’ Emmett was gesturing to the side of the room where a plaque stood. ‘It dates from …’ he paused to ensure I had the full impact, then pronounced carefully ‘… 1937.’
I didn’t like to tell him that on our street in England we had council housing older than that. I think Mum might even have a pair of tights older than that. I nodded, smiled, ate my chicken with wild mushrooms and wondered if there was any way I could move closer to Agnes, who was clearly miserable.
The meal dragged. Emmett told me endless tales of the club, and amusing things said and done by people I had never heard of, and occasionally Agnes looked up and I smiled at her, but I could see her sinking. Glances flickered surreptitiously towards our table and heads dipped towards heads. The two Mrs Gopniks sitting inches away from each other! Can you imagine! After the main course, I excused myself from my seat.
‘Agnes, would you mind showing me where the Ladies is?’ I said. I figured even ten minutes away from this room would help.
Before she could answer, Kathryn Gopnik placed her napkin on the table and turned to me. ‘I’ll show you, dear. I’m headed that way.’ She picked up her handbag and stood beside me, waiting. I glanced at Agnes, but she didn’t move.
Agnes nodded. ‘You go. I’ll – finish my chicken,’ she said.
I followed Mrs Gopnik through the tables of the Great Room and out into the hallway, my mind racing. We walked along a carpeted corridor, me a few paces behind her, and stopped at the Ladies. She opened the mahogany door and stood back, allowing me in before her.
‘Thank you,’ I muttered, and headed into a cubicle. I didn’t even want to wee. I sat on the seat: if I stayed there long enough she might leave before I came out, but when I emerged she was at the basins, touching up her lipstick. Her gaze slid towards me as I washed my hands.
‘So you live in my old home,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ There didn’t seem much point in lying about it.
She pursed her lips, then, satisfied, closed her lipstick. ‘This must all feel rather awkward for you.’
‘I just do my job.’
‘Mm.’ She took out a small hairbrush and dragged it lightly over her hair. I wondered if it would be rude to leave, or if etiquette said I should also return to the table with her. I dried my hands and leant toward the mirror, checking under my eyes for smudges and taking as much time as possible.
‘How is my husband?’
I blinked.
‘Leonard. How is he? Surely you’re not betraying any great confidence by telling me that.’ Her reflection looked out at me.
‘I … I don’t see him much. But he seems fine.’
‘I was wondering why he wasn’t here. Whether his arthritis had flared up again.’
‘Oh. No. I think he has a work thing today.’
‘A “work thing”. Well. I suppose that’s good news.’ She placed her hairbrush carefully back in her bag and pulled out a powder compact. She patted her nose once, twice, on each side, before closing it. I was running out of things to do. I rummaged in my bag, trying to remember if I had brought a powder compact with me. And then Mrs Gopnik turned to face me. ‘Is he happy?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s a straightforward question.’
My heart bumped awkwardly against my ribcage.
Her voice was mellifluous, even. ‘Tab won’t talk to me about him. She’s quite angry at her father still, though she loves him desperately. Always was a daddy’s girl. So I don’t think it’s possible for her to paint an accurate picture.’
‘Mrs Gopnik, with respect I really don’t think it’s my place to –’
She turned her head away. ‘No. I suppose not.’ She placed her compact carefully in her handbag. ‘I’m pretty sure I can guess what you’ve been told about me, Miss …?’
‘Clark.’
‘Miss Clark. And I’m sure you’re also aware that life is rarely black and white.’
