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 are you here? 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.”
Forrest sank back in his seat. “I need to see her. I texted her, but she might have blocked me.”
“She got a UK phone, with a different number.”
“She doesn’t answer my emails, either. That’s why I came all the way here. I was hoping to talk to her.”
Jule made them some tea while Forrest phoned hotels. He had to make twelve calls before he found one with a room he could book for a few nights.
He’d been arrogant enough to think Imogen would let him stay.
MID-DECEMBER, 2016
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA Two days before she would arrive in London, Jule was on foot, trudging up a San Francisco hill with a heavy statue of a lion in her backpack.
She adored San Francisco. It looked like Immie had said it would, hilly and quaint, yet expansive and elegant. Today Jule had been to see the Asian Art Museum’s ceramics exhibit. Her apartment’s owner had recommended it.
Maddie Chung, the owner, was spare, fiftyish, and gay. She wore jeans and smoked on the porch and owned a small bookstore. Jule paid in cash by the week for the apartment, which was the top floor of a Victorian house. Maddie and her wife lived in the bottom two stories. She was always talking to Jule about art history and gallery exhibits. She was very kind and seemed to view Jule as in need of goodwill.
Today, when Jule got home, Brooke Lannon was sitting on the steps. Immie’s friend from Vassar. “I got here early,” said Brooke. “Whatever.”
Brooke’s convertible had been parked in front of the building overnight. She needed to come pick it up, but Jule had texted her to please stay and talk.
Brooke had thick thighs, a square jaw, and sleek blond hair that always looked the same. White skin and nude lipstick. A jock style. She’d grown up in La Jolla. She drank too much, played field hockey in high school, and had had a series of boyfriends and one girlfriend, but never love. These were all things Jule knew about her from Martha’s Vineyard.
Now Brooke stood up and nearly lost her balance.
“You okay?” Jule asked.
“Not really.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Yes,” said Brooke. “What of it?”
Night was falling.
“Let’s go for a drive,” said Jule. “We can talk.”
“A drive?”
“It’ll be nice. You have such a cute car. Let me have the keys.” The car was the type of thing older men buy to convince themselves they’re still sexy. The two seats were camel-colored, the body curved and bright green. Jule wondered if it belonged to Brooke’s dad. “I can’t have you drive if you’ve been drinking.”
“What are you, the police?”
“Hardly.”
“A spy?”
“Brooke.”
“Seriously, are you?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Ha. That’s what a spy would say.”
It didn’t matter what Jule said or did not say to Brooke anymore. “Let’s go on a hike,” said Jule. “I know a place in the state park. We can drive across the Golden Gate Bridge and it’ll be mad scenic.”
Brooke jangled her car keys in her pocket. “It’s kinda late.”
“Look,” Jule said, “we’ve had a misunderstanding about Immie, and I’m glad you came over. Let’s just go somewhere neutral and talk it out. My apartment is not the best place.”
“I don’t know if I want to talk to you.”
“You showed up early,” said Jule. “You want to talk to me.”
“Okay, we’ll talk it out, hug it out, all that,” said Brooke. “It’ll make Immie happy.” She handed over the keys.
People were stupid when they drank.
Two days before Christmas it was too cold for the convertible, but the top of Brooke’s car was down anyway. Brooke insisted. Jule wore jeans, boots, and a warm wool sweater. Her backpack was in the trunk, and in it were her wallet, a second sweater and a clean T-shirt, a wide-mouth water bottle, a packet of baby wipes, a black garbage bag, and the lion statue.
Brooke took a half-empty bottle of vodka out of her shoulder bag but didn’t actually drink from it. She went to sleep almost immediately.
Jule drove up through the city. By the time they got to the Golden Gate Bridge, she was antsy. The quiet drive was unnerving. She nudged Brooke awake. “The bridge,” she said. “Look.” It loomed above them, orange and majestic.
“People love to kill themselves on this bridge,” said Brooke thickly.
“What?”
“It’s the second most popular suicide bridge in the world,” said Brooke. “I read it somewhere.”
“What’s the first?”
“A bridge on the Yangtze River. I forget the name. I read up on stuff like that,” said Brooke. “People think it’s poetic, to jump off a bridge. That’s why they do it. Whereas, let’s say, killing yourself by bleeding out in a bathtub, that’s just messy. What are you supposed to wear to bleed out in a bathtub?”
“You don’t wear anything.”
“How do you know?”