Genuine Fraud(18)

“Oh, it’s so hot when you say French words,” Jule told him, reaching over to his plate and taking a chip. “Not.”

When the bill came, Forrest took out his credit card. “My treat, thanks to Gabe Martin.”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah. He pays the bills on this baby”—Forrest tapped the card—“till I’m twenty-five. So I can work on my novel.”

“Lucky.” Jule picked up the card. She memorized the number; she flipped it over and memorized the code on the back. “You don’t even see the bill?”

Forrest laughed and took it back. Pushed it across the bar. “Nah. It goes to Connecticut. But I try to stay conscious of my privilege and not take it for granted.”

As they walked the rest of the way to the Barbican Centre in the drizzle, Forrest held the umbrella over them both. He bought a program, the kind you can buy in London theaters that’s full of photographs and gives a history of the production. They sat down in the dark.

During the intermission, Jule leaned against one wall of the lobby and watched the crowd. Forrest went to the men’s room. Jule listened to the accents of the theatergoers: London, Yorkshire, Liverpool. Boston, General American, California. South Africa. London again.

Damn.

Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone was here.

Right now. Across the lobby from Jule.

He seemed very bright in the middle of the drab crowd. He had on a red T-shirt under a sport coat and wore blue-and-yellow track shoes. The bottom edges of his jeans were frayed. Paolo had a Filipina mom and a white hodgepodge American dad. That was how he described them. He had black hair—cut short since she’d seen him last—and gentle-looking eyebrows. Round cheeks, brown eyes, and soft red lips, almost puffy. Straight teeth. Paolo was the type of guy who travels around the world with nothing more than a backpack, who talks to strangers on carousels and in wax museums. He was a conversationalist without pretension. He liked people and always thought the best of them. Right now he was eating Swedish Fish from a small yellow bag.

Jule turned away. She didn’t like how happy she felt. She didn’t like how beautiful he was.

No. She didn’t want to see Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone.

She couldn’t see him. Not now, not ever.





She left the lobby promptly and headed back into the theater. The double doors shut behind her. There weren’t many audience members in there. Just ushers and a couple of elderly folk who hadn’t wanted to leave their seats.

She had to get out as quickly as possible, without seeing Paolo. She grabbed her coat. She wouldn’t wait for Forrest.

Was there a side exit somewhere?

She was running up the aisle with her jacket over her arm—and there he was. Standing in front of her. She stopped. There was no getting away from him now.

Paolo waved his bag of Swedish Fish. “Imogen!” He ran the last length of the aisle and kissed her cheek. Jule caught the whiff of sugar on his breath. “I am crazy glad to see you.”

“Hello,” she said coldly. “I thought you were in Thailand.”

“Plans got delayed,” Paolo said. “We pushed everything back.” He stepped back as if to admire her. “You’ve got to be the prettiest girl in London. Yowza.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. Woman, not girl. Sorry. Are people following you around, like with their tongues hanging out? How did you get prettier since I last saw you? It’s terrifying. I’m talking too much because I’m nervous.”

Jule felt her skin warm.

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll buy you tea. Or a coffee. Whatever you want. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” She didn’t mean to say it. The words came out and they were true.

Paolo grabbed her hand, touching only her fingers. He had always been confident like that. Even though she’d rejected him, he could tell right away that she hadn’t meant it. He was supremely gentle and yet sure of himself at the same time. He touched her like the two of them were lucky to be touching each other; like he knew she didn’t very often let anyone touch her. Fingertip to fingertip, he led Jule back to the lobby.

“I only didn’t call because you told me not to call,” Paolo said, letting go of her hand as they stepped into line for tea. “I want to call you all the time. Every day. I stare at my phone and then I don’t call because I don’t want to be creepy. I’m so glad I ran into you. God, you’re pretty.”

Jule liked how his T-shirt lay against his collarbone, and the way his wrists moved against the fabric of his jacket. He bit his lower lip when he was worried. His face curved softly against the black of his eyelashes. She wanted to see him first thing in the morning. She felt like if she could just see Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone first thing in the morning, everything would be okay.

“You still don’t want to go home to New York?” he asked.

“I don’t want to go home, ever,” said Jule. Like so many things she found herself saying to him, it was absolutely true. Her eyes filled.

“I don’t want to go home, either,” he said. Paolo’s father was a real estate mogul who had been indicted for insider trading some months ago. It had been all over the news. “My mom left my dad when she found out what he’d been doing. Now she’s living with her sister and commuting to work from New Jersey. Things are all mangled with the money and there are divorce lawyers and criminal lawyers and mediators. Ugh.”