Page 65 of Genuine Fraud
“Let me do something for you,” said Immie. “You deserve it.”
—
In Oak Bluffs the next day, Jule felt light, without the weight of her hair. It was nice having Imogen take care of her. Lending her a lip gloss after the cut. Taking her out to lunch at a restaurant with views of the harbor. After the meal they stepped into a vintage jewelry shop. “I want to see the most unusual ring you have for sale,” Immie said.
The salesman bustled around and lined up six rings on a velvet tray. Imogen fingered them reverently. She selected a jade one in the shape of a viper, paid for it, and handed the blue velvet box to Jule. “This one is for you.”
Jule opened the box immediately and slid the snake onto the ring finger of her right hand. “I’m too young to get married,” she said. “Don’t go getting ideas.”
Immie laughed. “I love you,” she said casually.
It was the first time Immie had used the wordlove.
The next day, Jule borrowed the car to pick up propane for the grill at the hardware store on the other side of the island. She bought some groceries, too. When she came back, Imogen and Forrest were naked, wrapped around each other in the swimming pool.
Jule stood on the inside of the screen door, staring.
The two of them looked so awkward, humping around. Forrest’s long hair was wet and down around his shoulders. His glasses were at the edge of the pool, and his face looked dim and empty without them.
It seemed impossible. Jule was sure Imogen couldn’t really love or want Forrest. He was only an idea of a boyfriend: a placeholder. Though he didn’t know it, he was a temporary person, like the college kids and art students who came over for dinner and were never seen again. Forrest didn’t hear Immie’s secrets. He wasn’t beloved. Jule had never believed Imogen could grab his face and kiss him and seem hungry for him and crazy about him, the way she was doing right now. She hadn’t really believed Imogen would even be naked in front of him, so vulnerable.
Forrest saw her.
Jule started back, expecting him to yell, or to be embarrassed, but Forrest just said to Immie, “Your little friend is here,” as if he were talking about a child.
Imogen turned her head and said, “Bye-bye, Jule. We’ll see you later.”
Jule turned and ran upstairs.
—
Hours later, Jule came downstairs. She heard a podcast playing in the kitchen, which was Imogen’s usual habit when cooking, and she found Immie slicing zucchini for the grill.
“Do you need help?” Jule asked. She felt massively awkward. The fact of having witnessed that scene was excruciating. It might ruin everything.
“Sorry for the porno show,” said Imogen lightly. “Do you mind cutting a red onion?”
Jule took an onion from the bowl.
“When I first got my flat in London,” continued Imogen, “I had these two girlfriends from my program who were a couple. They had just come out, you know, being away from their families, and they were staying with me for August. I walked in on them absolutelygoing at iton the floor of the kitchen one day, like fully nude and yelling. I must have walked in at just a major effing moment, if you know what I mean. I thought, good Lord, are we ever going to be able to look each other in the face again? Like how could we all go out to the pub later, after this, and eat fish and chips? It just didn’t seem possible, and I had this feeling like maybe I’d lost these two amazing friends just by coming home at the wrong time. But one of them was like, ‘Oh, sorry for the porno show,’ and we all burst out laughing and it was actually fine. So I figured I’d say that, too, if ever I got into the same kind of situation.”
“You have an apartment in London?” Jule looked at the onion while she was peeling it.
“It was an investment,” Immie said. “And kind of a whim. I was in England on a summer program. My money person had advised me to put something in real estate, and I loved the city. This flat was the first place I looked at, an impulse buy in totally the wrong country, but I’m not sorry. It’s in a very cute area: St. John’s Wood.” Immie pronounced it likeSin Jahn’s Wood.“I had the most fun ever, decorating it with my friends. And we went around town and did tourist things. The Tower of London, the changing of the guard, the wax museum. We lived on digestive biscuits. It was before I learned to cook. You can borrow the place anytime. I never use it now.”
“We should go together,” said Jule.
“Oh, you’d be into it. The keys are right here. We could go tomorrow,” Immie said, and patted the bag that sat on the kitchen counter. “And maybe we should. Can you imagine? Just you and me in London?”
Immie loved people who were passionate. She wanted them to love the music she loved, the flowers she gave them, the books she admired. She wanted them to care about the smell of a spice or the taste of a new kind of salt. She didn’t mind disagreement, but she hated people who were apathetic and indecisive.
Jule read the two orphan books Immie had put on her bedside table, and everything else Immie brought home for her. She memorized wine labels, cheese labels, passages from novels, recipes. She was sweet with Forrest. She was scrappy yet willing to please, feminist yet feminine, full of rage yet friendly, articulate yet not dogmatic.
She realized that the manufacture of herself to please Imogen—it was like running, really. You simply powered through, mile after mile. Eventually you developed endurance. One day, you realized you loved it.
When Jule had been at the Vineyard house five weeks, Brooke Lannon showed up on Immie’s porch. Jule opened the door.
Brooke walked in and threw her bags down on the couch. Her blue flannel shirt was threadbare and old, and her silky blond hair was up in a topknot. “Immie, you still exist, you witch,” she said as Immie came into the living room. “All of Vassar thinks you’re dead. Nobody believed me when I said you texted me last week.” She turned to look at Forrest. “Is this the guy? Who…?” She left a question mark in the air.
