the Gucci, the Louis Vuitton . . .’ She thrusts her tote away from her as if she can’t bear to look at it. ‘I am broke, Loozy, broke!’
I look at her in alarm. ‘But I thought . . .’
I’m not sure what I thought, to be honest. It’s just that with the designer clothes, and the plastic surgery, and the Upper West Side address, I assumed . . .
‘Appearances can be deceptive, Loozy,’ she continues. ‘That’s what my aunt Irena used to say.’ She shakes her head. ‘The bank, they are thieves, they want to take everything from me, my apartment, the gallery . . .’
‘The gallery?’ I feel a flash of panic.
‘I am terrible with money. I borrow this for that, and that for this.’ She hunches her shoulders as she waves her hands around.
Unknown
I stare at her, a cold, sinking dread washing over me. My...
‘This place can’t close. It just can’ K€ It justÛcant!’ I cry, before I can help myself.
Magda suddenly raises herself up to full height and, reaching for my hand, holds it aloft like we’re two protestors. ‘We will do our very best, Loozy,’ she says in a rallying cry. ‘Our very best. We will not be beaten. We will not be afraid.’
‘Um . . . hear, hear,’ I offer.
‘All is not lost yet. There is a new up-and-coming artist. He lives on the Vineyard, but I think if we can meet with him, we might be able to show his work. He is incredible. Simply incredible! He will save us!’ All fired up, she smacks her fingers against her lips.
Watching her getting her mojo back, becoming passionate again, I feel a swell of affection and relief.
‘Sounds good.’ I smile. Maybe she’s right. Maybe everything will be all right.
‘Oh, it will be, it will be.’ Her eyes flashing, she stands up, dusts off her shift dress, smoothes down her hair and takes a deep breath. ‘OK, enough of these tears. Irena would kill me. She’d say, “Magda, what are you doing, acting like a big baby?” She was my mother’s twin sister, but she was more like a mother to me.’
Smiling, I go to turn away, when a thought strikes. ‘Did you say Irena was ninety-six?’
‘Nearly ninety-seven,’ says Magda proudly.
I pause, doing the maths. ‘And you were born in 1965,’ I say, remembering the code for the alarm. ‘So that means . . .’ I frown. That can’t be right. I must have got it wrong. ‘Your mum was fifty-one when she had you?’
Magda colours. ‘Um . . . yes, I know!’ Clearing her throat, she pretends to look as surprised as I am. ‘The doctors were amazed! I was a miracle baby!’
Chapter Twenty-Two
As I walk home from work later that evening, I can’t stop thinking about Magda. Despite her rallying cry and cheery optimism that the gallery will be saved and everything will be wonderful, I’m worried.
Maybe it’s the Manchester in me. The Northern pessimism instilled into me as a child that if things can go wrong, they bloody well will. Maybe it’s the call I took from the Department of Water and Power, complaining that a payment was long overdue and we had twenty-one days to settle the account or be cut off. Or maybe it’s that sometimes during the day I’d catch Magda, when she thought I wasn’t looking, and despite her heavy-handed blusher she looked pale and frightened.
On my way home I stop to pick up laundry. After my huge clear-out at the weekend, I filled a large bin liner with crumpled clothes and, along with some of Robyn’s stuff, dragged it e al drk up ^to my local Fluff and Fold. I love Fluff and Fold. They’re the New York version of our British launderettes, but they’re so much more. It’s a bit like comparing an Aston Martin to a Fiat Panda: they both do the job, but one does it with a super-fancy five-star service wash that includes fluffing, folding, ironing and giving it that delicious freshly washed scent.
Which is pretty amazing, considering next door is a Chinese restaurant, I muse, picking up a takeaway for me and Robyn.
‘Food’s up,’ I yell, as I walk into the apartment. Slamming the door behind me, I’m hit by a sweet, pungent aroma. What’s that smell? Following my nose, I wander into the kitchen to find it bathed in candlelight and Robyn sitting at the kitchen table, bent low over a large hardback book, the size of a telephone directory. In