Who was Louisa Clark, anyway?

I was a daughter, a sister, a kind of surrogate mother for a time. I was a woman who cared for others but who seemed to have little idea, even now, how to care for herself. As the glittering wheel spun in front of me, I tried to think about what I really wanted, rather than what everyone else seemed to want for me. I thought about what Will had really been telling me – not to live some vicarious idea of a full life but to live my own dream. The problem was, I don’t think I’d ever really worked out what that dream was.

I thought of Agnes across the corridor, a woman trying to convince everyone that she could shoehorn herself into a new life while some fundamental part of her refused to stop mourning the role she had left behind. I thought of my sister, her new-found contentment once she had taken the step of understanding who she really was. The way she had stepped so easily into love once she allowed herself to do so. I thought of my mother, a woman so moulded by looking after other people that she no longer knew what to do when she was freed.

I thought of the three men I had loved, and how each of them had changed me, or tried to. Will had left himself indubitably imprinted on me. I had seen everything through the prism of what he had wanted for me. I would have changed for you too, Will. And now I understand – you probably knew that all along.

Live boldly, Clark.

‘Good luck!’ shouted the Wheel of Fortune host, and spun again.

And I realised what I really wanted to do.

I spent the next three days collating Margot’s wardrobe, sorting the clothing into different sections: six different decades, and within those, daywear, evening wear, special occasion. I took out everything that needed repairing in any small way – buttons missing, gaps in lace, tiny holes – marvelling at how she had managed to avoid moths, and how many seams were not stretched, still perfectly aligned. I held pieces up against myself, tried things on, lifting off plastic covers and letting out little noises of delight and awe that made Dean Martin prick up his ears, then walk away in disgust. I went to the public library and spent half a day looking up everything to do with starting a small business, tax requirements, grants, paperwork, and printed out a file that grew day by day. Then I took a trip to the Vintage Clothes Emporium with Dean Martin and sat down with the girls to ask the best places to get delicate items dry-cleaned, and the names of the best haberdashers to find silk lining fabric for repair.

They were agog at the news of Margot’s gift. ‘We could take the whole lot off you,’ said Lydia, blowing a smoke ring upwards. ‘I mean, for something like that we could get a bank loan. Right? We’d give you a good price. Enough for a deposit on a really nice rental! We’ve had a lot of interest from this television company in Germany. They’ve got a twenty-four-episode multigenerational series that they want to –’

‘Thanks, but I haven’t decided what I want to do with it all yet,’ I said, trying not to notice their faces fall. I already felt a little protective about those clothes. I leant forward over the counter. ‘But I have had another idea …’

The following morning I was trying on a 1970 green ‘Judy’ Ossie Clark trouser suit, checking for rotting seams or tiny holes, when the doorbell rang. ‘Hold on, Ashok. Hold on! Let me just grab the dog,’ I called, scooping him up as he barked furiously at the door.

Michael stood in front of me.

‘Hello,’ I said, coldly, when I had recovered from the shock. ‘Is there a problem?’

He struggled not to raise an eyebrow at my outfit. ‘Mr Gopnik would like to see you.’

‘I’m here legitimately. Mrs De Witt invited me to stay on.’

‘It’s not about that. I don’t know what it is, to tell you the truth. But he wants to talk to you about something.’

‘I don’t really want to talk to him, Michael. But thanks anyway.’ I made to close the door but he put his foot in it, stopping me. I looked down at it. Dean Martin let out a low growl.

‘Louisa. You know what he’s like. He said I wasn’t to leave until you agreed.’

‘Tell him to walk down the corridor himself then. It’s hardly far.’

He lowered his voice. ‘He doesn’t want to see you here. He wants to see you at his office. In private.’ He looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable, as someone might, who had professed they were your best friend, then dropped you like a hot stone.

‘Tell him I might come by later this morning then. When Dean Martin and I have had our walk.’

Still he didn’t move.

‘What?’

He looked almost pleading. ‘The car is waiting outside.’

I brought Dean Martin. He was a useful distraction from my vague sense of anxiety. Michael sat beside me in the limousine and Dean Martin glared at him and at the back of the driver’s seat simultaneously. I sat in silence, wondering what on earth Mr Gopnik was going to do now. If he had decided to press charges surely he would have sent the police, rather than his car. Had he waited deliberately until Margot had gone? Had he uncovered other things I was about to be blamed for? I thought of Steven Lipkott and the pregnancy test and wondered what my response would be if he asked point blank what I knew. Will had always said I had the worst poker face. I practised in my head, I know nothing, until Michael shot me a sharp look and I realized I’d started saying it out loud.

We were discharged in front of a huge glass building. Michael walked briskly through the cavernous, marble-clad lobby, but I refused to hurry and instead let Dean Martin amble along at his own pace even though I could tell it infuriated Michael. He collected a pass from security, handed it to me, then directed me towards a separate lift near the back of the lobby – Mr Gopnik was plainly too important to travel up and down with the rest of his staff.

We went up to the forty-sixth floor, travelling at a speed that made my eyes bulge almost as much as Dean Martin’s, and I tried to hide the slight wobble in my legs as I stepped out into the hushed silence of the offices. A secretary, immaculately dressed in a tailored suit and spiked heels, did a double-take at me – I guessed they didn’t get too many people dressed in 1970s emerald Ossie Clark trouser suits with red satin trim, clutching furious small dogs. I followed Michael along a corridor to another office, in which sat another woman, also immaculately dressed in her office uniform.

‘I have Miss Clark to see Mr Gopnik, Diane,’ he said.

She nodded, and lifted a phone, murmuring something into it. ‘He’ll see you now,’ she said, with a small smile.

Michael pointed me towards the door. ‘Do you want me to take the dog?’ he said. He was plainly desperate for me not to take the dog.

‘No. Thank you,’ I said, holding Dean Martin a little tighter to me.

The door opened and there stood Leonard Gopnik in his shirtsleeves.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ he said, closing the door behind him. He gestured towards a seat on the other side of the desk and walked slowly around it. I noticed his limp was pronounced and wondered what Nathan was doing with him. He always was too discreet to discuss it.

I said nothing.

He sat down heavily in his chair. He looked tired, I noticed, the expensive tan unable to hide the shadows under his eyes, the strain lines at their edges.

‘You’re taking your duties very seriously,’ he said, gesturing at the dog.

‘I always do,’ I said, and he nodded, as if that were a fair comeback.