“From what?”
“From the crazy-scary waxworks, that’s what,” Paolo said. “It’s going to be a prison with escaped inmates. I looked it up. Lots of blood and guts.”
“And you want to go?”
“I love blood and guts. But not alone.” He smiled. “Are you coming to protect me from the inmates of the asylum, Imogen?” They stood at the door to the Chamber of Horrors now.
“Sure,” said Jule. “I’ll protect you.”
There had never been three boyfriends at Stanford.
There had never been three boyfriends anywhere. Or even one boyfriend.
Jule didn’t need a guy, wasn’t sure she liked guys, wasn’t sure she liked anyone.
She was supposed to meet Paolo at eight o’clock. She brushed her teeth three times and changed her clothes twice. She put on jasmine perfume.
When she spotted him waiting by the carousel where they had arranged to meet, she nearly turned around and left. Paolo was watching a street performer. He had his scarf wrapped tightly against the January wind.
Jule told herself she shouldn’t get close to people. No one was worth the risk. She would leave right now, she was about to leave—but then Paolo saw her and ran at her, top speed, like a little boy, stopping short before he crashed. He swung her around by the wrists and said, “Jeez, it’s like a movie. Can you believe we’re in London? Everything we know is on the other side of the ocean.”
And he was right. Everything was on the other side of the ocean.
Tonight would be okay.
Paolo took Jule walking along the Thames. Street performers played accordions and walked low tightropes. The two of them poked around in a bookshop for a while, and then Jule bought them both cotton candy. Folding sweet pink clouds into their mouths, they walked along to the Westminster Bridge.
Paolo took Jule’s hand and she let him. He rubbed her wrist softly now and then with the pad of his thumb. It sent a warm thrill up her arm. She was surprised that his touch could feel so comforting.
The Westminster Bridge was a series of stone arches over the river, gray and green. Light from the lamps on top of the bridge shone onto the rushing river.
“The worst thing in that Chamber of Horrors was Jack the Ripper,” said Paolo. “Know why?”
“Why?”
“One, because he was never caught. And two, because there’s a rumor that he killed himself by jumping off this exact bridge.”
“Get out.”
“He did. He was probably standing right here when he jumped. I read it on the Internet.”
“That is complete trash,” said Jule. “No one even knows who Jack the Ripper really was.”
“You’re right,” he said. “It is trash.”
He kissed her then, under the streetlight. Like a scene from a film. The stones were damp in the fog and glistened. Their coats flapped in the wind. Jule shivered in the night air, and Paolo put his warm hand against her neck.
He kissed like he couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else on the planet, because wasn’t this so nice, and didn’t this feel good? As if he knew she didn’t let people touch her, and he knew she would let him touch her, and he was the luckiest guy in the world. Jule felt as if the river underneath her were running through her veins.
She wanted to be herself with him.
Wondered if she was being herself. If she could go on being herself.
And if anyone could love the person she was.
They pulled apart and walked in silence for a minute. A crowd of four drunk young women headed toward them, crossing the bridge precariously on high heels. “I can’t believe they made us leave,” one of them complained, slurring her words.
“They should want our business, those buggers,” said another. Their accents were Yorkshire.
“Ooh, he’s cute.” The first one looked at Paolo from ten feet away.
“You think he wants to go get a drink?”
“Ha! Cheeky.”
“I dunno. Ask him.”
One woman called out, “If you want a night out, good sir, you can come along with us.”
Paolo blushed. “What?”
“Are you coming?” she asked. “Just you.”
Paolo shook his head. The women walked away, giggling, and he watched them until they were off the bridge. Then he took Jule’s hand again.
The mood was different, though. They no longer knew what to say to each other.
Finally, Paolo said: “Did you know Brooke Lannon?”
What?
Imogen’s friend Brooke. What did Paolo have to do with Brooke?
Jule made her voice light. “Yeah, from Vassar. How come?”
“Brooke—she passed away about a week ago.” Paolo looked at the ground.
“What? Oh no.”
“I didn’t mean to be the one to tell you. I didn’t put it together that you’d know her till now,” said Paolo. “And then it popped out.”
“How do you know Brooke?”
“I don’t, really. She was friends with my sister from summer camp.”
“What happened?” Jule wanted to hear his answer, desperately, but she calmed her voice.
“It was an accident. She was up in a park north of San Francisco. She was there visiting some friends who went to college in the city, but they were busy or something, and Brooke went hiking. It was a day hike, but late, when it was getting dark. She was on a nature preserve by herself. And she just—she fell off this walkway. A walkway over a ravine.”
“She fell?”
“They think she’d been drinking. She hit her head and nobody found her till this morning. Except some animals. The body was pretty messed up.”
Jule shivered. She thought of Brooke Lannon, with her loud, show-off laugh. Brooke, who drank too much. Brooke, with that perverse streak of humor, the sleek yellow hair and seal-like body. The entitled set of her jaw. Silly, petty, harsh Brooke. “How do they know what happened?”
“She tipped herself over the railing. Maybe climbing up to see something. They found her car in the lot with an empty vodka bottle in it.”
“Was it suicide?”
“No, no. Just an accident. It was in the news today, like a cautionary tale. You know, always take a buddy when you go out in nature. Don’t drink vodka and then hike across a ravine. Her family got worried when she didn’t come home for Christmas Eve, but the police assumed she’d just gone deliberately missing.”
Jule felt cold and strange. She hadn’t thought of Brooke since she’d gotten to London. She could have looked her up online, but she hadn’t. She had cut Brooke out completely. “You’re sure it was an accident?”
“A terrible accident,” said Paolo. “I’m so sorry.”
They walked for a ways in awkward silence.
Paolo pulled his hat down over his ears.
After a minute, Jule reached over and took his hand again. She wanted to touch him. Admitting that and doing it felt more like an act of bravery than any fight she had ever been in. “Let’s not think about it,” she said. “Let’s be on the other side of the ocean and feel lucky.”
She let him walk her home, and he kissed her again in front of her building. They huddled together on the steps to keep warm as merry snowflakes drifted through the air.
Early the next day, Paolo showed up at the flat carrying a tote bag. Jule was wearing pajama pants and a camisole when he rang the buzzer. She made him wait in the hall until she put clothes on.
“I’m borrowing my friend’s house in Dorset,” he said, following her to the kitchen. “And I rented a car. Everything else anyone could possibly need for a weekend away is in this bag.”
Jule peered into the sack he held out: four Crunchie bars, Hula Hoops, Swedish Fish, two bottles of seltzer, and a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips. “You don’t have any clothes in there. Or even a toothbrush.”
“Those are for amateurs.”
She laughed. “Ew.”