I leant forward so that nobody else could hear. ‘But … but this is batshit crazy, Agnes. You already have a daughter!’
‘And how can I tell him this now after two years? You think he will not think I am bad woman? You think he will not see this as terrible, terrible deceit? I have made huge problem for myself, Louisa. I know this.’ She took a swig of her drink.
‘I think all the time – all the time – how I can fix this? But there is nothing to fix. I lied to him. For him, trust is everything. He would not forgive me. So is simple. This way he is happy, I am happy, I can provide for everyone. I try to convince my sister to come to live in New York one day. Then I can see Zofia every day.’
‘But you must miss her terribly.’
Her jaw tightened. ‘I am providing for her future.’ She spoke as if reading from a long-rehearsed mental list. ‘Before, our family had not so much. My sister now lives in very good house – four bedrooms, everything new. Very nice area. Zofia will go to best school in Poland, play best piano, she will have everything.’
‘But no mother.’
Her eyes suddenly brimmed. ‘No. I have to leave Leonard or I have to leave her. So is my … my … oh, what is word? … my penance to live without her.’ Her voice cracked a little.
I sipped my vodka. I didn’t know what else to do. We both stared at our glasses.
‘I am not bad person, Louisa. I love Leonard. Very much.’
‘I know.’
‘I had this idea that maybe when we had been married, when we had been together a while, I could tell him. And he would be little bit upset but maybe he could come round. Or I could go backwards and forwards to Poland, you know? Or maybe she could come stay for a bit. But things just get so – so complicated. His family hate me so much. You know what would happen if they found out about her now? You know what would happen if Tabitha knew this thing about me?’
I could guess.
‘I love him. I know you think many things about me. But I love him. He is good man. Sometimes I find it very hard because he is working so much and because nobody cares for me in his world … and I get so lonely and maybe … I do not always behave perfectly, but when I think of being without him I cannot bear it. He is truly my soulmate. From first day, I knew this.’
She traced a pattern on the table with a slim finger. ‘But then I think of my daughter growing up for next ten, fifteen years without me and I … I …’
She let out a shuddering sigh, loud enough to draw the attention of the barman. I reached into my bag, and when I couldn’t find a handkerchief I passed her a cocktail napkin. When she looked up there was a softness to her face. It was an expression I hadn’t seen before, radiant with love and tenderness.
‘She is so beautiful, Louisa. She is nearly four years old now and so clever. And so bright. She knows days of the week and she can point out countries on the globe and she can sing. She knows where New York is. She can draw a line on map between Kraków and New York without anybody showing her. And every time I visit she hangs onto me and says, “Why do you have to go, Mama? I don’t want you to go.” And a little bit of my heart, it breaks … Oh, God, it breaks … Sometimes now I don’t even want to see her because the pain when I have to leave is … it is …’ Agnes hunched over her drink, her hand lifting mechanically to wipe the tears that fell silently onto the shiny table.
I handed her another cocktail napkin. ‘Agnes,’ I said softly, ‘I don’t know how long you can keep this up.’
She dabbed at her eyes, her head bowed. When she looked up it was impossible to tell she had been crying. ‘We are friends, yes? Good friends.’
‘Of course.’
She glanced behind her and leant forward over the table. ‘You and I. We are both immigrants. We both know it is hard to find your place in this world. You want to make your life better, work hard in country that is not your own – you make new life, new friends, find new love. You get to become new person! But is never a simple thing, never without cost.’
I swallowed, and pushed away a hot, angry image of Sam in his railway carriage.
‘I know this – nobody gets everything. And we immigrants know this more than anyone. You always have one foot in two places. You can never be truly happy because, from the moment you leave, you are two selves, and wherever you are one half of you is always calling to the other. This is our price, Louisa. This is the cost of who we are.’
She took a sip of her drink and then another. Then she took a deep breath and shook her hands out across the table, as if she were ridding herself of excess emotion through her fingertips. When she spoke again her voice was steely. ‘You must not tell him. You must not tell him what you see today.’
‘Agnes, I don’t know how you can hide this for ever. It’s too big. It –’
She reached out a hand and laid it on my arm. Her fingers closed firmly around my wrist. ‘Please. We are friends, yes?’
I swallowed.
There are no real secrets among the rich, it turns out. Just people paid to keep them. I walked up the stairs, this new burden unexpectedly heavy on my heart. I thought of a little girl across the world with everything but the thing she wanted most in the world, and a woman who probably felt the same, even if she was only just beginning to realize it. I thought about calling my sister – the only person left with whom I might be able to discuss it – but knew without speaking to her what her judgement would be. She would no more have left Thom in another country than she would have cut off her own arm.
I thought about Sam, and the bargains we make with ourselves to justify our choices. I sat in my room that evening until my thoughts hung low and black around my head and I pulled out my phone. Hey, Josh, is that offer still open? But for, like, a drink-drink instead of coffee?
Within thirty seconds the answer pinged back: Just say where and when, Louisa.
21
In the end, I met Josh at a dive bar he knew off Times Square. It was long and narrow, covered with photographs of boxers, and the floor was tacky underfoot. I wore black jeans and scraped my hair into a ponytail. Nobody looked up as I squeezed my way past the middle-aged men and autographed pictures of flyweights and men whose necks were wider than their heads.
He was seated at a tiny table at the end of the bar in a waxed dark brown jacket – the kind you buy to look like you belong in the countryside. When he saw me, his smile was sudden and infectious and made me briefly glad that someone uncomplicated was pleased to see me in a world that felt impossibly messy.
‘How you doing?’ He stood and looked like he wanted to step forward and hug me but something – perhaps the circumstances of our last meeting – prevented him. He touched my arm instead.
‘I’ve had a bit of a day. A bit of a week, actually. And I really need a friendly face to have a drink or two with. And – guess what – yours was the first name I pulled out of my New York hat!’
‘What do you want? Bear in mind they do about six drinks here.’
‘Vodka tonic?’
‘I’m pretty sure that’s one of them.’
He was back within minutes with a bottled beer for himself and a vodka tonic for me. I had shed my coat and was oddly nervous to be opposite him.
‘So … this week of yours. What happened?’
I took a sip of my drink. It sat too comfortably on top of the one I’d had that afternoon. ‘I … I found out something today. It’s kind of knocked me sideways. I can’t tell you what it is, not because I don’t trust you but because it’s so big that it would affect all sorts of people. And I don’t know what to do about it.’ I shifted in my seat. ‘I think I just need to kind of swallow it and learn how not to let it give me indigestion. Does that make sense? So I was hoping I could see you and have a couple of drinks and hear a bit about your life – a nice life without big dark secrets, assuming you don’t have any big dark secrets – and remind myself that life can be normal and good, but I really don’t want you to try and get me to talk about mine. Like if I happen to drop my defences and stuff.’