Still Me (Me Before You #3) - Jojo Moyes Page 0,165

him to see me go.’

Her son had climbed out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, waiting. He offered her a hand but she waved him away. I thought I saw her blink back tears, but it was hard to tell as my own eyes seemed to be streaming.

‘Thank you, Margot,’ I called. ‘For everything.’

She shook her head, her lips set. ‘Now go. Please, dear.’ She turned towards the car just as her son approached, his hand outstretched towards her, and I don’t know what she did next because I put Dean Martin on the sidewalk as she had told me and walked briskly towards Central Park, my head down, ignoring the stares of the curious people wondering why a girl in glittery hot-pants and a purple silk bomber jacket was crying openly at eleven o’clock in the morning.

I walked for as long as Dean Martin’s little legs could stand. And then when he stopped, mutinously, near the Azalea Pond, his tiny pink tongue hanging out and one eye drooping slightly, I picked him up and carried him, my eyes swollen with tears, my chest one breath away from another racking sob.

I have never really been an animal person. But I suddenly understood what comfort could be gained from burying your face in the soft pelt of another creature, the consolation of the many small tasks that you’re obliged to perform for its welfare.

‘Mrs De Witt off on vacation?’ Ashok was behind his desk as I entered, my head down and my blue plastic sunglasses on.

I didn’t have the energy to tell him just yet. ‘Yup.’

‘She never told me to cancel her papers. I’d better get on to it.’ He shook his head, reaching for a ledger. ‘Know when she’s coming home?’

‘Let me get back to you.’

I walked upstairs slowly, the little dog not moving in my arms, as if he were afraid that if he did he might be asked to use his legs again. And then I let myself into the apartment.

It was dead silent, already shot through with her absence in a way it had never been when she was in the hospital, dust motes settling in the still, warm air. In a matter of months, I thought, somebody else would live here, tearing off the 1960s wallpaper, scrapping the smoked-glass furniture. It would be transformed, redesigned, a bolthole for busy executives or a terrifyingly wealthy family with small children. The thought of it made me feel hollow inside.

I gave Dean Martin some water and a handful of kibble as a treat, then made my way slowly through the apartment, with its clothes and its hats and its walls of memories, and told myself not to think about the sad things but about the delight on the old woman’s face at the prospect of living out her days with her only child. It was a joy that had been transformative, lifting her tired features and making her eyes shine. It made me wonder how much all this stuff, all this memorabilia, had been her way of insulating herself from the lengthy pain of his absence.

Margot De Witt, style queen, fashion editor extraordinaire, woman ahead of her time, had built a wall, a lovely, gaudy, multi-coloured wall, to tell herself it had all been for something. And the moment he had returned to her she had demolished it without a backward glance.

Some time later, when my tears had slowed to intermittent hiccups, I picked the first envelope off the table and opened it. It was written in Margot’s beautiful, looping script, a remnant of an age when children were judged by their penmanship. As promised, it contained details of the little dog’s preferred diet, times of eating, veterinary needs, vaccinations, flea-prevention and worming schedules. It told me where to find his various winter coats – there were different ones for rain, wind and snow – and his favourite brand of shampoo. He would also require his teeth descaling, his ears cleaning and – I winced – his anal glands emptying.

‘She didn’t tell me that when she asked me to take you on,’ I said to him, and he lifted his head, groaned and lowered it again.

Further on, she gave details of where any post should be forwarded, the contact details for the packing company – the items they were not to take were to remain in her bedroom and I should write a note and pin it to the door to tell them not to enter. All