A couple of weeks went by. Gemma kept her eyebrows plucked thin. She bought clothes and more clothes, lovely things with fat price tags. She bought cookbooks for the flat's kitchen, though she never used them. She went to the ballet, to the opera, to the theater. She saw all the things, historic sites and museums and famous buildings. She bought antiques on Portobello Road.
Late one night, Chance showed up at the flat. He was supposed to be in America.
Gemma forced down panic as she looked through the peephole. She wanted to open the window and climb the drainpipe to the roof, leap onto the next building, and, frankly, just not be home. She wanted to change her eyebrows and her hair and her makeup and—
He rang the buzzer a second time. Gemma settled on taking off her rings and putting on joggers and a T-shirt instead of the maxi dress she'd been wearing. She stood before the door and reminded herself that she had always known Chance might show up. It was Will's flat. She had a strategy. She could handle him. She unlocked the door.
"Chance. What a great surprise."
"Gemma."
"You look tired. Are you okay? Come in."
He was holding a weekender bag. She took it from him and brought it into the flat.
"I just got off a plane," said Chance, rubbing his jaw and squinting through his glasses.
"Did you take a cab from Heathrow?"
"Yes." He eyed her coldly. "Why are you here? In Willow's apartment?"
"I'm staying here for a bit. She gave me her keys."
"Where is she? I want to see her."
"She didn't come back last night. How did you find the flat?"
"Mrs. Blair gave me the address." Chance looked down at the floor, awkward. "It was a long flight. Could I have a glass of water?"
Gemma led the way into the kitchen. She gave him water from the tap with no ice. She had lemons in a bowl on the counter, because they fit her idea of how the flat should look, but inside the cupboards and the fridge, there was nothing Willow would have stocked. Gemma ate saltines and sugary peanut butter, packets of salami and chocolate bars. She hoped Chance wouldn't ask for food.
"Where is Will, again?" he asked.
"I told you, she isn't here."
"But, Gemma." He grabbed her arm, and for a moment she was afraid of him, afraid of his hard hands pressing the fabric of her shirt, thin and weak as he was. "Where is she instead of here?" He spoke very slowly. She hated the feel of his body close to hers.
"Don't you ever fucking touch me," she told him. "Ever. You understand?"
He let her arm drop and walked into the living room, where he draped himself on the couch without being invited. "I think you know where she is. That's all."
"She probably went to Paris for the weekend. You can go really quickly from here through the Chunnel."
"Paris?"
"I'm guessing."
"Did she tell you not to tell me where she went?"
"No. We didn't even know you were coming."
Chance sank back in his seat. "I need to see her. I texted her, but she might have blocked me."
"She got a UK phone, with a different number."
"She doesn't answer my emails, either. That's why I came all the way here. I was hoping to talk to her."
Gemma made them some tea while Chance phoned hotels. He had to make twelve calls before he found one with a room he could book for a few nights.
He'd been arrogant enough to think Willow would let him stay.