Brooke Lannon: Immie! where R you?
BL: Jule says Mumbai? Or Cairo.
BL: Zat true?
BL: Also, Vivian was a huge witch to me and I can’t believe the thing about her and Isaac. I mean, I can believe it, but fuck.
BL: Chip Lupton felt my boob last night and then today he blew me off. So WHATEVER. Wish you were actually here, except it sucks so bad you’d hate it.
BL: Also, Jule told the landlady her name is Imogen. ????!!!!
Jule finally texted back.
IS: Hey. I’m here.
BL: Hi!!!!!
IS: Chip felt your boob?
BL: It takes boobs to make you text me back heh heh.
BL: Well, boobs are v. important.
Jule waited a minute and then texted:
IS: Relax about Jule. She is my oldest friend.
IS: I got her an apartment till she gets herself set up. Signed the lease, so the owner thinks she’s me. She’s broke.
BL: Not convinced. She is off, somehow. For real, Jule let this lady CALL HER “IMOGEN.”
IS: It’s fine.
BL: IDK. Could mess up your credit rating and I know you care about that shit. Plus is creepy. Hello? Identity theft? Is actually a thing and not just an urban myth.
BL: Also, where are you? Mumbai?
Jule didn’t answer. Nothing she could say mattered if Brooke was determined to make trouble.
LAST WEEK OF SEPTEMBER, 2016
SAN FRANCISCO
Twelve weeks before Brooke came to dinner, Jule flew from Puerto Rico to San Francisco and checked into the Sir Francis Drake Hotel in Nob Hill. The place was all red velvet, chandeliers, and rococo flourishes. The ceilings were carved. Jule used Imogen’s credit card and photo ID. The clerk questioned nothing and called her Ms. Sokoloff.
Jule had a suite on the top floor. The room had leather-studded chairs and a gold-tipped dresser. She began to feel better as soon as she saw it.
She took a long shower and washed the sweat of travel and the memories of Puerto Rico off her skin. She scrubbed hard with the washcloth and shampooed twice. She put on pajamas she’d never worn before and slept until the pain that ran up her neck finally disappeared.
Jule spent a week in that hotel. She felt like she was in an egg. The sparkling, hard shell of the hotel protected her when she needed it.
—
At the end of the week, she saw a listing, sent some emails, and went to see the San Francisco apartment. Maddie Chung toured her around. The place came furnished, but it didn’t have the kind of plain furnishings you might expect from a rental apartment. It was filled with unusual pieces of sculpture and pretty collections in glass jars: buttons, marbles, and rhinestones displayed on shelves so they caught the light. The kitchen had red cabinets and wood floors. There were glass dishes and heavy cast-iron pans.
Handing over the key, Maddie explained that she had had a renter there for more than ten years, a single gentleman who had died without any relatives. “There was no one to tell when he died. No one to come and take his things,” she said. “And he had such pretty taste, and had taken care of everything so well. I thought—I’ll rent it furnished, like a vacation rental. Then people can appreciate it.” She touched a jar of marbles. “No charity shop wants these.”
“Why didn’t he have anyone?” asked Jule.
