“You were fine a minute ago,” he said, trailing behindher.
“Great to see you,” she called to Paolo. “Goodbye.”
She had intended Paolo to stay rooted in his seat, but he got up and followed Jule and Forrest to the door. “I’m Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone,” he said, smiling at Forrest as they walked. “I’m a friend of Imogen’s.”
“We have to go,” Jule said.
“Forrest Smith-Martin,” Forrest responded. “You’ve heard, then?”
“Let’sgo,” said Jule.“Now.”
“Heard what?” said Paolo. He kept pace as Jule pulled Forrest outside.
“Sorry, sorry,” Jule said. “Something is wrong with me. Get a taxi. Please.”
They were outside now, in heavy rain. The Barbican Centre had long walkways leading to the street. Jule pulled Forrest along the pavement.
Paolo stopped under the shelter of the building, unwilling to get wet.
Jule flagged a black taxi. Got in. Gave the address of the flat in St. John’s Wood.
Then she took a deep breath and settled her mind. She decided what to tell Forrest.
“I left my jacket on my seat,” he complained. “Are you sick?”
“No, not really.”
“Then what was it? Why are we going home?”
“That guy has been bothering me.”
“Paolo?”
“Yes. He calls me all the time. Like, many times a day. Texts. Emails. I think he’s following me.”
“You have weird relationships.”
“It’s not a relationship. He doesn’t take no for an answer. That’s why I had to get away.”
“Paolo something Bellstone, right?” said Forrest. “That was his name?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he related to Stuart Bellstone?”
“I don’t know.”
“But was that the last name? Bellstone?” Forrest had his phone out. “On Wikipedia it says—yeah, the son of Stuart Bellstone, the D and G trading scandal, blah, blah, his son is Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone.”
“I guess so,” said Jule. “I think about him as little as I possibly can.”
“Bellstone, that’s funny,” said Forrest. “Did Imogen meet him?”
“Yes. No.” She was flustered.
“Which is it?”
“Their families know each other. We ran into him when we first got to London.”
