“Did you have a bad time? I mean, aside from the rain, no Stonehenge, no country house, no sheep? Aside from the fact that it was a day of disaster upon disaster?”
Jule wanted to stay in the car. To touch his lips with her fingertips and to relax into being Immie and to let the lies build up on each other.
But it would not do.
“Leave me the fuck alone, Paolo,” she snapped. She pushed open the car door and stepped into the downpour.
A couple of weeks went by. Jule kept her eyebrows plucked thin. She bought clothes and more clothes, lovely things with fat price tags. She bought cookbooks for the flat’s kitchen, though she never used them. She went to the ballet, to the opera, to the theater. She saw all the things, historic sites and museums and famous buildings. She bought antiques on Portobello Road.
Late one night, Forrest showed up at the flat. He was supposed to be in America.
Jule forced down panic as she looked through the peephole. She wanted to open the window and climb the drainpipe to the roof, leap onto the next building, and, frankly, just not be home. She wanted to change her eyebrows and her hair and her makeup and—
He rang the buzzer a second time. Jule settled on taking off her rings and putting on joggers and a T-shirt instead of the maxi dress she’d been wearing. She stood before the door and reminded herself that she had always known Forrest might show up. It was Immie’s flat. She had a strategy. She could handle him. She unlocked the door.
“Forrest. What a great surprise.”
“Jule.”
“You look tired. Are you okay? Come in.”
He was holding a weekender bag. She took it from him and brought it into the flat.
“I just got off a plane,” said Forrest, rubbing his jaw and squinting through his glasses.
“Did you take a cab from Heathrow?”
“Yes.” He eyed her coldly. “Why areyouhere? In Imogen’s apartment?”
“I’m staying here for a bit. She gave me her keys.”
“Where is she? I want to see her.”
“She didn’t come back last night. How did you find the flat?”
“Mrs. Sokoloff gave me the address.” Forrest looked down at the floor, awkward. “It was a long flight. Could I have a glass of water?”
Jule led the way into the kitchen. She gave him water from the tap with no ice. She had lemons in a bowl on the counter, because they fit her idea of how the flat should look, but inside the cupboards and the fridge, there was nothing Imogen would have stocked. Jule ate saltines and sugary peanut butter, packets of salami and chocolate bars. She hoped Forrest wouldn’t ask for food.
“Where is Immie, again?” he asked.
“I told you, she isn’t here.”
“But, Jule.” He grabbed her arm, and for a moment she was afraid of him, afraid of his hard hands pressing the fabric of her shirt, thin and weak as he was. “Where is she instead of here?” He spoke very slowly. She hated the feel of his body close to hers.
“Don’t you ever fucking touch me,” she told him. “Ever. You understand?”
He let her arm drop and walked into the living room, where he draped himself on the couch without being invited. “I think you know where she is. That’s all.”
“She probably went to Paris for the weekend. You can go really quickly from here through the Chunnel.”
“Paris?”
“I’m guessing.”
“Did she tell you not to tell me where she went?”
“No. We didn’t even know you were coming.”
