Genuine Fraud

by E. Lockhart

  “Then there was this week I thought I was pregnant,” Immie went on. “Jule, imagine. I’m an adopted kid. And there I am, pregnant with a kid I think I might have to put up for adoption. Or have aborted. The dad is a guy my parents met once and wrote him off as a party person—because of his color and his hairstyle the one time they met him—and I have no idea what to do, so I spend all week skipping class and reading people’s abortion stories on the Internet. Then one day I finally get my period and I text Isaac. He drops everything and comes over to my dorm room—and he breaks up with me.” Immie put her hands over her face. “I have never been as scared as I was that week,” she went on. “When I thought I had a baby inside me.”

  —

  That night, when Forrest came back from the fireworks, Imogen had already gone to bed. Jule was still awake, watching TV on the living room couch. She followed him as he rummaged in the fridge and found himself a beer and a leftover grilled pork chop. “Do you know how to cook?” she asked him.

  “I can boil noodles. And heat up tomato sauce.”

  “Imogen’s really good.”

  “Yeah. Nice for us, right?”

  “She works hard in the kitchen. She taught herself by watching videos and getting cookbooks from the library.”

  “Did she?” said Forrest, mildly. “Hey, is there crumble left over? Crumble is necessary to my existence right now.”

  “I ate it,” Jule told him.

  “Lucky girl,” he said. “All right, then. I’m gonna go work on my book. Night is when my brain works best.”

  One night, after Forrest had been staying with Jule in London for a week, he bought the two of them tickets to see A Winter’s Tale at the Royal Shakespeare Company. It was something to do. They needed to leave the flat.

  They took the Jubilee line to the Central line to St. Paul’s and walked toward the theater. It was raining. Since the show didn’t start for an hour, they found a pub and ordered fish and chips. The room was dark and the walls were lined with mirrors. They ate at the bar.

  Forrest talked a great deal about books. Jule asked him about the Camus he had been reading, L’Etranger. She made him explain the plot, which was about a guy with a dead mother who kills another guy and then goes to prison for it.

  “It’s a mystery?”

  “Not at all,” said Forrest. “Mysteries perpetuate the status quo. Everything always wraps up at the end. Order is restored. But order doesn’t really exist, right? It’s an artificial construct. The whole genre of the mystery novel reinforces the hegemony of Western notions of causation. In L’Etranger, you know everything that happens from the beginning. There’s nothing to find out, because human existence is ultimately meaningless.”

  “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. T
hings are all mangled with the money and there are divorce lawyers and criminal lawyers and mediators. Ugh.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s just ugly. My dad’s brother is being a giant racist about the divorce. You wouldn’t believe what’s come out of his mouth. And so my mother is full of venom, frankly. She has a right to be, but it’s hellish to even talk to her on the phone. I don’t think there’s anything, really, to go back to.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Travel around some more. My friend will be ready to go in another couple weeks, and then we’ll backpack through Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam, same plan as before. Then to Hong Kong, and we’ll go see my grandmother in the Philippines.” He took Jule’s hand again. He ran his finger softly across her palm. “You’re not wearing your rings.” Her nails were painted with pale pink polish.

  “Just the one.” Jule showed him her other hand, which had the jade viper on it. “The others all belonged to this friend of mine. I was only borrowing them.”

  “I thought they were yours.”

  “No. Yes. No.” Jule sighed.

  “Which is it?”

  “My friend killed herself not that long ago. We argued and she died angry at me.” Jule was telling the truth, and she was lying. Being with Paolo muddled her thinking. She knew she shouldn’t talk to him anymore. She could feel the stories she told herself and the stories she told others shifting around, overlapping, changing shades. She couldn’t tell, tonight, what the names of the stories were, what she meant and what she didn’t.

  Paolo squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  Jule blurted: “Tell me, do you think a person is as bad as her worst actions?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think a person is as bad as her worst actions?”

  “You mean, will your friend go to hell because she killed herself?”

  “No.” That wasn’t what Jule meant at all. “I mean, do our worst actions define us when we’re alive? Or do you think human beings are better than the very worst things we have ever done?”

  Paolo thought. “Well, take Leontes in The Winter’s Tale. He tried to poison his friend, he threw his own wife in prison, and he abandoned his baby in the wilderness. So he’s the absolute worst. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “But in the end—have you seen it before tonight?”

  “No.”

  “At the end, he’s sorry. He’s just really, really sorry about everything, and that’s enough. Everyone forgives him. Shakespeare lets Leontes be redeemed even though he did all that evil stuff.”

  Jule wanted to tell Paolo everything.

  She wanted to reveal her past to him in its ugliness and beauty, its courage and complexity. She would be redeemed.

  She could not speak.

  “Ohhh,” said Paolo, drawing out the word. “We’re not talking about the play, are we?”

  Jule shook her head.

  “I’m not angry with you, Imogen,” said Paolo. “I am crazy about you.” He reached out and touched her cheek. Then he ran the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. “I’m sure your friend isn’t still angry with you, either, whatever happened when she was alive. You’re a top-notch, excellent person. I can tell.”

  They had reached the front of the line. “Two cups of tea,” Jule said to the lady at the counter. Her eyes leaked even though she was not crying. She had to stop being emotional.

  “This seems like a dinner conversation,” said Paolo. He paid for the tea. “Do you want to get dinner after the play? Or bagels? I know a pub that serves real New York bagels.”

  Jule knew she should say no, but she nodded.

  “Bagels, good. So for now, let’s talk about cheerful things,” said Paolo. They brought their drinks in paper cups over to a stand with milk and coffee spoons. “I take two sugars and a giant glug of cream. How do you drink it?”

  “With lemon,” Jule said. “I need like four slices of lemon for tea.”

  “Okay, cheerful, distracting things,” Paolo said as they walked to a table. “Shall I talk about myself?”

  “I don’t think anyone could stop you.”

  He laughed. “When I was eight, I broke my ankle jumping off the roof of my uncle’s car. I had a dog named Twister and a hamster named St. George. I wanted to be a detective when I was a boy. I made myself sick from eating too many cherries once. And I haven’t been out with anyone since you told me not to call you.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Liar.”

  “Not one single woman. I’m here tonight with Artie Thatcher.”

  “The friend of your dad’s?”

  “The one I’m staying with. He said I hadn’t seen London if I hadn’t seen the RSC. And you?”

  Jule was brought back to reality.

  She was here with Forrest.

  It had been stupid, unthinkably stupid, to let Paolo derail her.

  She had been leaving the theater. But then he’d brushed her cheek with his lips. He had touched her fingers. He noticed her hands and he’d said God, she was pretty. He’d said he wanted to call her every day.

  Jule had missed Paolo very much.

  But Forrest was here.

  They couldn’t meet. Paolo must absolutely not see Forrest.

  “Listen, I have to—”

  Forrest appeared at her elbow. He was languid and slouching. “You found a friend,” he said to Jule. He said it as if speaking to a puppy.

  They had to leave immediately. Jule stood up. “I’m not feeling well,” she said. “I got a head rush. I’m nauseated. Can you take me home?” She grabbed Forrest’s wrist and pulled him toward the lobby doors.

  “You were fine a minute ago,” he said, trailing behind her.

  “Great to see you,” she called to Paolo. “Goodbye.”

  She had intended Paolo to stay rooted in his seat, but he got up and followed Jule and Forrest to the door. “I’m Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone,” he said, smiling at Forrest as they walked. “I’m a friend of Imogen’s.”

  “We have to go,” Jule said.

  “Forrest Smith-Martin,” Forrest responded. “You’ve heard, then?”

  “Let’s go,” said Jule. “Now.”

  “Heard what?” said Paolo. He kept pace as Jule pulled Forrest outside.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Jule said. “Something is wrong with me. Get a taxi. Please.”

  They were outside now, in heavy rain. The Barbican Centre had long walkways leading to the street. Jule pulled Forrest along the pavement.

  Paolo stopped under the shelter of the building, unwilling to get wet.

  Jule flagged a black taxi. Got in. Gave the address of the flat in St. John’s Wood.

  Then she took a deep breath and settled her mind. She decided what to tell Forrest.

  “I left my jacket on my seat,” he complained. “Are you sick?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Then what was it? Why are we going home?”

  “That guy has been bothering me.”

  “Paolo?”

  “Yes. He calls me all the time. Like, many times a day. Texts. Emails. I think he’s following me.”

  “You have weird relationships.”

  “It’s not a relationship. He doesn’t take no for an answer. That’s why I had to get away.”

  “Paolo something Bellstone, right?” said Forrest. “That was his name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he related to Stuart Bellstone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But was that the last name? Bellstone?” Forrest had his phone out. “On Wikipedia it says—yeah, the son of Stuart Bellstone, the D and G trading scandal, blah, blah, his son is Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone.”

  “I guess so,” said Jule. “I think about him as little as I possibly can.”

  “Bellstone, that’s funny,” said Forrest. “Did Imogen meet him?”

  “Yes. No.” She was flustered.

  “Which is it?”

  “Their familie
s know each other. We ran into him when we first got to London.”

  “And now he’s stalking you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it never occurred to you that this stalker Bellstone might be worth mentioning to the police in terms of investigating Immie’s disappearance?”

  “He has nothing to do with anything.”

  “He might. There are a lot of things that don’t add up.”

  “Immie killed herself and there’s nothing more to it,” snapped Jule. “She was depressed and she didn’t love you anymore and she didn’t love me enough to stay alive, either. Stop acting like there’s anything else that could have happened.”

  Forrest bit his lip and they rode in silence. After a minute or two, Jule looked over and saw that he was crying.

  In the morning, Forrest was gone. He was simply not on the fold-out couch. His bag was not in the hall closet. His fuzzy man-sweaters were not lying around the room. His laptop was gone and so were his French novels. He had left his dirty dishes in the sink.

  Jule wouldn’t miss him. She never wanted to see him again. But she didn’t want him leaving without saying why.

  What had Paolo said to Forrest the night before? Only “I’m a friend of Imogen’s” and “Heard what?”—and his name. That was all.