26 Ill Protect You (1/2)

Back in the summer on Martha's Vineyard, Will had told Gemma about owning a flat in London. She had said, ”The keys are right here. We could go tomorrow,” and patted her bag.

But she hadn't mentioned it ever again.

Now Gemma called the building manager who handled the flat and told him Will was in town. Could he arrange for cleanup and an airing? Could some groceries be brought in, and fresh flowers? Yes, everything could be arranged.

When the flat was ready, Will's key turned easily in the lock. The place was a large one-bedroom with a den in St. John's Wood, near lots of shops. It occupied the top floor of a white town house and had windows that looked out onto trees. The cupboards held soft towels and sheets with a ticking stripe. There was only a bathtub, no shower. The fridge was tiny and the kitchen barely furnished. Will had fixed up the flat before she'd learned to cook. But that didn't matter.

The June after highschool graduation, Gemma knew, Willow had attended a summer abroad program in London. While she was there, she bought the flat with encouragement from her financial advisor. The sale had gone through quickly, and Will had covered the front door with instant photos from that summer- maybe fifty of them. Most featured her and her crew of boys and girls, arms around each other, in front of places like the Tower of London or Madame Tussauds.

Gemma put her things away in the flat and then took the photographs down. She threw them in the trash and took the garbage bag down to the basement.

—

In the weeks that followed, Gemma acquired a new laptop and put the two old ones in the incinerator. She went to museums and restaurants, eating steaks in quiet establishments and burgers in noisy pubs. She was charming with servers. She chatted with booksellers and told them Will's name. She talked to tourists—temporary people—and sometimes went to a meal with them or joined them at the theater. She felt as she imagined Will would: welcome everywhere. She worked out every day and she ate only food she liked. Other than that, she lived Willow's life.

At the start of her third week in London, Gemma went to Madame Tussauds. The museum is a famous attraction, full of Bollywood actors, members of the royal family, and the dimpled stars of boy bands, all sculpted in wax. The place was crowded with loud American children and their aggravated parents.

Gemma was looking at the wax model of Charles Dickens, who sat morosely in a hard wooden chair, when someone spoke to her.

”If he lived now,” said Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone, ”he'd have shaved that baldy head.”

”If he lived now,” said Gemma, ”he'd be a TV writer.”

”Do you remember me?” he asked. ”I'm Paolo. We met in the summer on Martha's Vineyard.” He had a bashful grin. He was wearing old jeans and a soft orange T-shirt. Beat-up Vans. He'd been backpacking, Gemma knew. ”You changed your hair,” he added. ”I wasn't sure it was you, at first.”

He looked good. Gemma had forgotten how good he looked. She had kissed him once. His thick black hair was in his face. His cheeks looked slightly sunburnt and his lips a bit chapped. Maybe he'd been skiing.

”I remember you,” she said. ”You can't decide between butterscotch and hot fudge, you get sick on carousels, you might want to be a doctor someday. You actually play golf, which is stodgy; you're traveling the world, which is interesting; you follow girls around museums and sneak up on them when they stop to look at a famous novelist made of wax.”

”I'm just gonna say thank you,” said Paolo, ”even though you made mean remarks about golf. I'm glad you remember me. Have you read him?” He pointed at Dickens. ”I was supposed to in school, but I blew it off.”

”Yeah.”

”What's the best one, you think?”