The Ivy inhabited its narrow corner of London perfectly. It seemed custom-fit to its plot of land. Inside, the walls were lined with portraits and stained glass. It smelled like money: roasted lamb and hothouse flowers. Gemma wore a fitted dress and ballet flats. She had added red lipstick to her college-girl makeup.
She found Paulina waiting for her at a table, drinking water from a wineglass. When Gemma had last seen her eleven months ago, Will's mother had been a glossy woman. She was a dermatologist, midfifties, trim except for a potbelly. Her skin had had a moist pinkish sheen, and her hair had been long, dyed deep brown and ironed into loose curls. Now the hair was gray at the roots and chopped into a bob. Her mouth looked swollen and manly without lipstick. She wore, as women of the Upper East Side do, narrow black pants and a long cashmere cardigan—but instead of heels, she had on a pair of bright blue running shoes. Gemma almost didn't recognize her. Paulina stood and smiled as Gemma came across the room. "I look different, I know."
"No you don't," Gemma lied. She kissed Paulina's cheek.
"I can't do it any longer," said Paulina. "All that time in front of the mirror in the morning, the uncomfortable shoes. Putting on the face."
Gemma sat down.
"I used to put on my face for Corey," Paulina went on. "And for Will, when she was little. She used to say, 'Mommy, curl your hair! Go put on sparkles!' Now there's no reason. I'm taking time off work. One day I thought, I don't have to bother. I walked out the door without doing anything and it was such a relief, I can't say. But I do know it disturbs people. My friends worry. But I think, meh. I lost Willow. I lost Corey. This is me now."
Gemma was anxious to say the right thing, but she didn't know if sympathy or distraction was required. "I read a book about that in college, " she said.
"About what?"
"The presentation of self in everyday life. This guy Goffman had the idea that in different situations, you perform yourself differently. Your character isn't static. It's an adaptation."
"I have stopped performing myself, you mean?"
"Or you're doing it another way now. There are different versions of the self."
Paulina picked up the menu, then reached over and touched Gemma's hand. "You need to go back to college, sweetie potato. You're so smart."
"Thank you."
Paulina looked Gemma in the eye. "I'm very intuitive about people, you know," she said, "and you have so much potential. You're hungry and adventurous. I hope you know you could be anything in the world you want."
The waiter arrived and took a drink order. Someone else set down a bread basket.
"I brought you Willow's rings," said Gemma, when the bustle was over. "I should have mailed them back before, but I—"
"I get it," said Paulina. "It was hard to let them go."
Gemma nodded. She handed over a package of tissue paper. Paulina pulled the sticky tape off. Inside lay eight antique rings, all carved or shaped like animals. Will had collected them. They were funny and unusual, carefully crafted, all different styles. The ninth one, Gemma still wore. Will had given it to her. It was a turquoise snake on her right ring finger.
Paulina began to weep quietly into her napkin.
Gemma looked down at the collection. Each of those circles had been on Will's fragile fingers at one point or another. Will had stood, sun-kissed, in that jewelry store on the Vineyard. "I want to see the most unusual ring you have for sale," she'd said to the shopkeeper. And later, "This one is for you." She'd given Gemma the snake ring, and Gemma would not stop wearing it, now, even though she didn't deserve it any longer, and maybe had never deserved it at all.
Gemma gagged, a feeling that came from deep in her stomach and rippled through her throat. "Excuse me." She got up and stumbled toward the ladies' toilet. The restaurant spun around her. Black closed in from the sides of her eyes. She clutched the back of an empty chair to steady herself.
She was going to be sick. Or faint. Or both. Here in the Ivy, surrounded by these pristine people, where she didn't deserve to be, embarrassing the poor, poor mother of a friend she hadn't loved well enough, or had loved too much.
Gemma reached the restroom and stood bent over the sink.
The gagging would not stop. Her throat contracted over and over.
She closed herself in a stall, steadying herself against the wall. Her shoulders shook. She heaved, but nothing came up.
She stayed in there until the gagging subsided, shaking and trying to catch her breath.
Back at the sink, she wiped her wet face with a paper towel. She pressed her swollen eyes with fingers dipped in cold water.
The red lipstick was in the pocket of her dress. Gemma put it on like armor and went back to see Paulina.
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When Gemma returned to the table, Paulina had composed herself and was talking to the waiter. "I'll have the beetroot to start," she told him as Gemma sat down. "And then the swordfish, I think. The swordfish is good? Yes, okay."
Gemma ordered a hamburger and a green salad.
When the waiter left, Paulina apologized. "Sorry. I'm very sorry. Are you all right?"
"Sure."
"I warn you, I may cry again later. Possibly on the street! You never know these days. I'm liable to begin sobbing at any given moment." The rings and their tissue paper were no longer on the table. "Listen, Gemma," said Paulina. "You once told me that your parents failed you. Do you remember?"
Gemma did not remember. She never thought of her parents anymore, at all, unless it was through the lens of the hero's origin she had created for herself. She never, ever thought of her aunt.
Now the origin story flashed into her mind: Her parents in the front yard of a pretty little house at the end of a cul-de-sac, in that tiny Alabama town. They lay facedown in pools of black blood that seeped into the grass, lit by a single streetlight. Her mother shot through the brain. Her father bleeding out through bullet holes in his arms.
She found the story comforting. It was beautiful. The parents had been brave. The girl would grow up highly educated and extremely powerful.
But she knew it was not a story to share with Paulina. Instead, she said mildly, "Did I say that?"
"Yes, and when you did, I thought maybe I had failed Willow, too. Corey and I hardly ever talked about her being adopted when she was little. Not in front of her, or in private. I wanted to think of Will as my baby, you know? Not anyone's but mine and Corey's. And it was hard to speak about, because her birth mother became an addict, and there were no family members who would take the baby. I told myself I was protecting her from pain. I had no idea how badly I was failing her until she—" Paulina's voice trailed off.
"Willow loved you," said Gemma.
"She was desperate about something. And she didn't come to me."
"She didn't come to me, either."
"I should have raised her so that she could open up to people, get help if she was in trouble."
"Will told me everything," said Gemma. "Her secrets, her insecurities, how she wanted to live her life. She told me her birth name. We wore each other's clothes and read each other's books. Honestly, I was very close to Will when she died, and I think she was mad lucky to have you."
Paulina's eyes welled and she touched Gemma's hand. "She was lucky to have you, too. I thought so when she first took up with you at Greenbriar freshman year. I know she adored you more than anyone in her life, Gemma, because— Well. This is what I wanted to meet with you about. Our family lawyer tells me Will left you her money."
Gemma felt dizzy. She put down her fork.
Will's money. Millions.
It was safety and power. It was plane tickets and keys to cars, but more importantly, it was tuition payments, food in the larder, medical care. It meant that no one could say no. No one could stop her anymore, and no one could hurt her. Gemma wouldn't need help from anyone, ever again.
"I don't understand finance," Paulina went on. "I should, I know. But I trusted Corey and I was glad he took care of all that. It bores me out of my skin. But Will understood it, and she left a will. She sent it to the lawyer before she died. She had a lot of money from her father and me, once she turned eighteen. It was in trust till then, and after her birthday, Corey did the paperwork to shift it over to her."
"She got the money when she was still in high school?"
"The May before college started. Maybe that was a mistake. Anyway, it's done." Paulina went on, "She was good with finances. She lived off the interest and never touched the capital except to buy the London flat. That's why she didn't have to work. And in her will, she left it all to you. She made small bequests to the National Kidney Foundation—because of Corey's illness—and to the North Shore Animal League, but she made a will and left you the bulk of the money. She sent the lawyer an email that specifically says she wanted to help you go back to college."
Gemma was touched. It didn't make sense, but she was.
Paulina smiled. "She left this world sending you back to school. That's the bright side I'm trying to see."
"When did she write the will?"
"A few months before she died. She had it notarized in San Francisco. There are just a few things to sign." Paulina shoved an envelope across the table. "They'll transfer the money directly into your account, and in September you'll be a sophomore at Stanford."
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When the money arrived in her bank, Gemma withdrew it all and opened a new checking account somewhere else. She started several new credit card accounts and arranged for the bills to be paid automatically every month.
Then she went shopping. She bought false eyelashes, foundation, liner, blush, powder, brushes, three different lipsticks, two shadows, and a small but expensive makeup box. A red wig, a black dress, and a pair of high heels. More would have been nice, but she needed to travel light.
She used her computer to purchase a plane ticket to Los Angeles, booked an LA hotel, and researched used car dealers in the Las Vegas area. London to LA, then LA by bus to Vegas. From Vegas by car to Colombia. That was the plan.
Gemma paged through documents on her laptop. She made sure she knew all the bank numbers, customer service numbers, passwords, credit card numbers, and codes. She memorized passport and driver's license numbers. Then one night, long after dark, she tossed the laptop and her phone into the Thames.
Back at the youth hostel, she wrote a sincere letter of thanks to Paulina Blair on an old-fashioned piece of airmail paper and posted it. She cleaned out her storage locker and packed her suitcase. Her identification and papers were neatly organized. She made sure to place all her lotions and hair products in travel-size bottles in sealable plastic bags.