Stone Bruises

11

In the heat of the sun the drying mortar gives off a smell as evocative as freshly baked bread. I mix the sand and cement together in the metal tub, then carry a bucketful up to the top of the scaffold. I transfer a small pile onto a wooden board, about a foot square, that I found in the storeroom, then trowel it into the grooves I’ve hacked out between the stones.

Pointing the wall is slow work yet oddly restful. There’s something pleasurable about the soft hiss the trowel makes as I run the flat of its blade along the wet mortar to smooth it. Foot by foot, the wall is being remade. I replace the loose stones as I come to them, easing each heavy block into place and then mortaring around it until it’s indistinguishable from the rest. In the days since I visited the town, the upper level of the house has begun to look solid and whole rather than a ruin on the verge of collapse. Each evening when I stop work I get a small charge when I look at what I’ve accomplished. It’s a long time since I’ve done anything constructive.

It’s longer since I’ve done anything I’ve felt proud of.

I finish the last of the mortar and take the bucket down to the storeroom to refill. The afternoon sun is blinding overhead, whiting out the blue of the sky with its mindless heat. When it’s like this it’s impossible to imagine the same landscape in winter, made brown and brittle or hidden under a skim of frost. But I know it’ll come, all the same.

What little mortar is left in the galvanized tub has set. I scrape it out onto the pile outside the storeroom and decide I’ve earned a rest before I mix another batch. I sit in the shade and light up a cigarette. From down here it’s apparent just how much there is still to do. The knowledge is somehow comforting. I take another drag on the cigarette, contemplating it.

‘I’m not paying you to sit on your arse.’

Arnaud has appeared around the corner of the house. I take an unhurried drag of the cigarette.

‘You’ve not paid me for anything yet.’

‘What do you call three meals a day and a roof over your head? You’ll get the rest when you’ve earned it.’ He squints up at the house. The completed section seems even smaller than it did a moment ago. ‘Not done much, have you?’

‘I want to do it properly.’

‘It’s a wall, not the Venus de Milo.’

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say he’s welcome to get someone from town to do it instead, but I stop myself. Although we haven’t spoken about what happened in town with Didier and his friends, I’m sure Arnaud will have heard about it from Mathilde or Gretchen. Mathilde had asked about the bruise on my face from where Didier punched me. Predictably, she didn’t pass any comment, although she’d looked shaken when I gave her Jean-Claude’s message. Equally predictably, Gretchen was delighted to hear that I’d been in a fight, especially when she discovered who it was with.

‘What did Didier say? Did he mention me?’

‘Not really.’ She’d be less pleased if she knew what he’d been boasting. ‘Who is he, an old boyfriend?’

‘Oh no. Just someone I see sometimes.’ She’d shrugged, archly. ‘I haven’t seen him for a while, though. He’s probably jealous. That’s why he picked a fight with you.’

I doubted that, but I was starting to guess why the gate was unlocked when I first came to the farm. It couldn’t be easy for Gretchen to meet any local boys with Arnaud watching over her.

‘I got the impression it was more to do with your father. What’s he done to upset everyone?’ I asked.

‘Papa hasn’t done anything. It’s them,’ she’d said, and retreated into one of her sulks.

Since then there’s been no further mention of the incident; if not for the new bruise on my face it might never have happened. But I’ve come to understand that the farm has a way of absorbing events, closing over them like the stones I toss into the lake.

A few ripples to mark their passing, then they’re gone.

Arnaud regards the wall for a moment longer then jerks his head at me. ‘That can wait. Come on.’

‘Where?’

But he’s already walking away. I’m tempted to stay where I am, then I give in and go after him. He crosses the courtyard to the stable block and goes behind the tractor occupying one of the archways. By the time I’ve squeezed past it myself he’s already lifting something down from the back wall.

‘Does this thing ever move?’ I ask, rubbing my elbow where I’ve skinned it on the tractor’s bodywork.

His voice comes from the back of the stables. ‘Not since someone put sugar in its tank.’

‘Who?’

‘They didn’t leave a business card.’

I think about Didier, and wonder if this could be the reason for the traps. ‘Can’t you drain it?’

Arnaud reappears. He’s carrying something but it’s too dark to make out what it is. ‘Do you know anything about engines?’

‘Not really.’

‘Then don’t ask stupid questions.’

He comes nearer and I see he’s holding a chainsaw. It’s bulky and grimed with oil, its long blade lined with snaggled teeth. I step back, but he’s only going to a petrol canister. Unscrewing the fuel cap on the chainsaw, he begins to fill its tank.

‘What are you going to do with that?’ I ask, as the air sweetens with petrol.

‘We need to stock up with firewood.’

‘In summer?’

‘Green wood takes a long time to dry out.’

I glance through the stable’s archway at the house. ‘What about the wall?’

‘It’ll still be there when you get back.’ He adds oil from another container, then reseals the fuel cap and lifts the chainsaw in one hand. ‘Get the barrow.’

There’s a wheelbarrow beside a workbench. I struggle with it past the tractor, then set it down while Arnaud unceremoniously dumps the chainsaw into it. I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s coming next, and he doesn’t disappoint.

‘Bring that with you.’

With that he sets off out of the stable block, leaving me to follow. Laying my walking stick in the barrow, I take hold of the handles. The heavy chainsaw unbalances it when I take the weight, almost upending the whole thing. I hurriedly set the barrow down again and shift the saw into its centre. Then, hobbling awkwardly, I wheel it after Arnaud.

He walks ahead of me, across the courtyard and through the grapevines to the woods. I only catch up with him when he stops in a semi-cleared area near the statues, where smaller tree stumps stand among the bigger trunks like broken teeth. Kneading his lower back, he goes to a tree as I set the barrow down.

‘Here,’ he says, slapping it. ‘This one.’

It’s a young silver birch that’s found space to grow among the bulkier chestnuts. I look blankly at Arnaud as he takes his pipe out of his pocket and begins filling it. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Cut it down, what do you think?’

‘You want me to do it?’

‘I didn’t bring you down here to watch. What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you’ve never used a chainsaw before.’

‘Yes. No, I mean.’

‘So now you get to learn. Just remember that it’ll cut through bone as easily as wood, so if you’re not careful it’ll take you apart instead of the tree.’ He gives a smirk. ‘Wouldn’t want any more accidents, would we?’

I clutch at the first excuse I can think of. ‘Aren’t we too close to the statues?’

‘They haven’t been hit yet, and they won’t be now if you do it right.’ He kicks the tree trunk about eighteen inches off the ground. ‘Cut a notch about here, then saw through to it from the other side. That’s all there is to it. Even you should be able to manage that.’

With that he goes and settles himself on a tree stump. The chainsaw sits in the wheelbarrow between us, waiting. My walking stick lies next to it, but if I was going to use my foot as an excuse I should have done it before I pushed the barrow down here. Arnaud gestures irritably.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? It won’t bite.’

I don’t want to go anywhere near the thing, but pride won’t allow me to refuse. I bend down and lift the chainsaw out. It’s as heavy as it looks, old and ugly and stained with oil. I hold it warily, half-expecting it to roar into life by itself. There don’t seem to be any guards or safety features, and what I assume is the starter cord is dangling from it. Conscious of Arnaud watching me, I brace myself and pull. Nothing happens.

‘Try turning it on. And you might want to put it down first,’ Arnaud says. He’s enjoying this.

There’s a toggle on the side of the machine. I flick it, then take hold of the cord again. This time when I pull it the engine chuckles and dies.

‘Are you sure it works?’ I ask.

‘It works.’

Gripping the cord tightly, I yank as hard as I can. The chainsaw shakes as it flares into life, then settles into a buzzing roar.

The noise is deafening. The saw shudders in my hands as I approach the tree. It’s a slender thing, the delicate leaves like translucent green coins against the silver bark. I lower the blade to where Arnaud indicated but can’t bring myself to cut.

‘Get on with it!’ Arnaud shouts against the din.

I set myself so I’m balanced without putting too much weight on my bad foot, take a deep breath and touch the teeth to the tree.

The saw’s buzzing rises to a scream. Fragments of raw white wood and bark spray out, and I instinctively draw back. The saw subsides to a growl. Imagining Arnaud’s smile, I put it to the tree again.

The saw judders as it tears through the wood. I brace myself against it, squinting against the splinters and chips it spits into my face. I cut a V-shaped notch as Arnaud instructed, then knock out the wedge of wood and begin to saw through the other side of the trunk. I hope I’m doing it right, but I’m not going to ask. I’m almost all the way through when the tree creaks and begins to lean.

I quickly step back. There’s a sound of cracking, then the silver birch topples and crashes down, bouncing once before settling to rest in a snapping of branches. As Arnaud predicted, it’s well clear of the statues. I’m impressed, despite myself.

He motions towards the saw. The engine noise drops as I let it idle.

‘There now,’ Arnaud smirks. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

I trim the branches from the tree and then set about carving the trunk into manageable segments. The clearing soon begins to look like a lumber yard, shards of white wood scattered around like confetti. While I’m attacking the trunk Arnaud gathers the lopped branches together, arranging them roughly by size so that all but the smallest can be used for kindling.

It’s hot work. Soon I’m stripped to my waist, the overalls rolled down and tied by their arms around my hips. Even Arnaud is forced to open his shirt, exposing a torso that’s hairless and pallid as milk against the nut brown of his face and neck. A waft of acrid sweat comes off him. What communication there is between us is reduced to gestures and signs. The whining of the chainsaw fills the woods as we go about dismembering the tree.

Finally, it’s done. When I switch the machine off, the sudden silence feels too heavy for the woods to support. Every noise seems amplified in the hush.

‘Let’s take a rest,’ Arnaud says.

I flop down with my back against the plinth of a statue. My skin is spattered with oil and woodchips. Arnaud grimaces in pain as he lowers himself onto the same stump he sat on earlier.

‘What’s wrong with your back?’ I ask.

‘I fell down the stairs.’ He gives a humourless smile. ‘Same as you.’

I hope it hurt, I think, reaching for my cigarettes. He begins to refill his pipe, pressing down the tobacco with his thumb as I search for my lighter. With my overalls rolled to my waist, it’s hard to get into the pockets.

‘Light?’

Arnaud tosses me a box of matches. I catch them, surprised. ‘Thanks.’

I light up, luxuriating in the nicotine hit as my muscles slowly uncramp. I can hear the faint tamp of Arnaud’s mouth on the pipe stem, the faint whistle of air through its bowl. The first bird risks a tentative call. Gradually, the life of the woods returns to normal. I feel no urge to disturb it as I enjoy my cigarette. When it’s finished I stub it out and put my head back.

I hear Arnaud chuckle. ‘What?’ I ask.

‘I was just admiring your choice of backrest.’

I turn to find that I’m propped against the statue of Pan. The pagan god’s crotch is right behind my head.

I settle back again. ‘If he doesn’t mind, neither do I.’

Arnaud snorts, but seems amused. He takes the pipe from his mouth and raps the bowl smartly against the heel of his boot to empty it. He grinds the ash into the soil but doesn’t put the pipe away.

‘How much do you think they’re worth?’ he asks abruptly.

For a moment I think he means the trees, before I realize he’s talking about the statues.

‘No idea.’

‘No? You’re so smart, I thought you knew everything.’

‘Not when it comes to stolen statues.’

Arnaud takes out a short-bladed pocketknife. He begins scraping out the bowl of the pipe. ‘Who said they were stolen?’

‘You wouldn’t have hidden them down here if they weren’t.’ I’m not going to admit it was Gretchen. ‘Why haven’t you sold them?’

‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’ He grinds the knife into the pipe, but lowers it again after a moment, the task forgotten. ‘It isn’t that simple. You have to be careful who you approach.’

Very careful, judging by the grass growing around them. They’ve obviously been here for some time. ‘If you didn’t already have buyers, why did you get so many?’

‘I had a … business associate. He said he knew a dealer who would take them off our hands.’

I stub out my cigarette. ‘What happened?’

Arnaud’s mouth is clamped into a bitter line. ‘He let me down. Betrayed my trust.’

It’s almost the same phrase Gretchen used about Michel’s father. I’d put money on him and this ‘associate’ being the same man: the man whose dirty overalls I’m currently wearing. One way or another, Jean-Claude’s nameless brother certainly left a mess in his wake. No wonder they don’t want to talk about him.

‘So why don’t you just get rid of them?’ I ask.

He snorts. ‘If you want to try lifting them, go ahead.’

‘You managed to get them down here.’

‘We had lifting gear.’

‘You mean your associate did.’

Arnaud gives an angry nod. He considers the pipe bowl again. ‘I thought you might have some ideas. Contacts.’

‘What sort of contacts?’

‘The sort who wouldn’t be too interested in where the statues came from. There must be plenty of rich English bastards who’d pay for this sort of thing.’ When he looks at me there’s a shrewd glint in his eye. ‘There’d be something in it for you.’

‘Sorry, but I don’t know anyone.’

His scowl deepens. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t be any use.’

I can’t help myself. ‘This “business associate”. Did he suggest making your own wine as well?’

Arnaud’s look is answer enough. Snapping the knife shut, he rams it in his pocket as he pushes himself awkwardly to his feet.

‘You can start taking the wood back.’

‘By myself? How?’ I look at the pile of cut timber. It was hard enough bringing the wheelbarrow down here with just the chainsaw in it.

He gives me a grim smile. ‘Smart-arse like you, you’ll think of something.’

It’s early evening before I finish taking the sawn-up tree to the house. I make trip after trip, limping up and down the track until I’m aching all over. I keep telling myself that each trip is the last, that Arnaud can do the rest himself. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of sneering that I couldn’t manage. And leaving the silver birch to litter the woods seems too wasteful, no better than vandalism after I’ve cut it down.

So I carry on until all the logs are stacked under a lean-to at the back of the house. Only when I’ve put the wheelbarrow away do I remember I’ve left my walking stick in the woods. I almost don’t bother going back: I’ve coped without it all afternoon, and the wounds on my foot are healing nicely. But just thinking about it makes them hurt again.

Besides, I’ve grown used to having something to lean on.

After I’ve stripped off my overalls I try to wash myself at the tap in the barn. Water runs between the cobbles, pooling in the rough concrete depression before draining into the deepening crack in its surface. As I try to scrub myself clean I make a note to bring some mortar down here to patch it. The cold water takes away my breath, but not even the block of caustic homemade soap can cut through the coating of oil and tree-bark.

I persevere until my skin is raw and wrinkled, then throw down the soap in disgust. Turning off the tap, I put my overalls back on and collect clean clothes from the loft. Then I go to the house and knock on the kitchen door.

Mathilde opens it.

‘I could really use a bath,’ I tell her wearily.

I’m ready for an argument, and if Arnaud was there I’d probably get one. But there’s no protest from inside the room. Mathilde just takes in my oil-spattered state and steps back.

‘Come in.’

The kitchen is full of cooking smells. Pans are bubbling on the range, but the kitchen is empty except for her.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘My father’s with Georges and Gretchen’s taken Michel out. He’s teething again. The bathroom’s this way.’

She leads me through the door at the back of the room and into a hallway. It’s gloomy, unlit at this time of day by either natural or electric light. The stairs are steep and narrow, tarnished brass rods gripping the worn carpet. I follow her up them, taking hold of the painted wooden banister for support and keeping my eyes on the stairs instead of Mathilde’s legs.

This is the first time I’ve been beyond the kitchen. It feels strange. The house is threadbare but clean. The stairs end at a long corridor that runs off in both directions. There are doors on either side, all closed. I guess one of those on my left must open onto the unused bedroom that I look into from the scaffold. But I’m not sure which it is, and there’s no way of knowing what’s behind any of them.

Mathilde goes down the corridor and pushes open a door at the far end. ‘Here.’

The bathroom is so big that the ancient bath and washbasin look lost in it. The floor is bare boards except for a small rug beside the bath. But the room is bright and airy, even though the single window faces away from the sun this late in the afternoon.

‘You have to run the hot water first, then add the cold. The pipes don’t work properly if you try to run both at once. Be careful. It gets very hot.’ She tucks her hair behind her ear, not quite looking at me. ‘You’ll need a clean towel.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘It’s no problem.’

She goes out, quietly closing the door behind her. I could be imagining it, but there seems to be a subtle change in her since I gave her Jean-Claude’s message. A slight reserve towards me. It’s hardly surprising: God knows, I wouldn’t like strangers knowing about my private life. But I regret it, even so.

The bath is a deep iron tub, the chipped white enamel discoloured by twin ferrous streaks where the taps have dripped. The hot one creaks as I turn it, producing nothing for a moment except a groaning shudder that seems to stem from the heart of the house. Then a bolt of water spatters out, followed by a thick gush. I put in the plug and find that the water is as scalding as Mathilde warned.

The bathroom quickly fills with steam. When I turn off the tap the metal burns my fingers. I spin it closed, touching it as little as possible, and run the cold water. Deep as the tub is, it’s nearly three-quarters full before it’s cool enough to bear.

I go to lock the door, not wanting Arnaud — or Gretchen, God forbid — to walk in. But while there are screw holes from a missing bolt, there’s no way of locking it. Hoping that Mathilde won’t let anyone disturb me, I undress and lower myself into the bath. The heat soaks through my aching muscles and joints. Resting my foot on the side to keep the bandage dry, I slide down until I’m submerged up to my chin.

Bliss.

I’m drifting away when there’s a knock on the door. Mathilde’s muffled voice comes from behind it.

‘I’ve brought you a towel.’

I sit up. The water has developed a limestone scum, making it opaque. ‘You can come in.’

There’s a delay before she opens the door. A towel is folded over one arm. Without looking over at the bath, she puts it on an old bentwood chair that stands against the wall.

‘Can you reach it there?’

‘That’s fine.’

There’s an awkwardness. She turns to go.

‘I thought I’d take off the bandage,’ I say. ‘Bathe the wounds.’

‘All right.’

She looks at where my foot dangles over the side of the bath. I wait, knowing what’s coming next.

‘Here,’ she says. ‘I’ll do it.’

Mathilde sits on the edge of the bath while I raise my foot so she can unwind the bandage. The only sound is the faint rustle of cotton and the occasional drip of a tap. My exposed foot looks white and thin, as unfamiliar as a stranger’s. The wounds caused by the trap have closed up, like scabbed and puckered mouths. They’re still ugly but no longer inflamed. I’ve long since finished with the antibiotics, and the last painkiller I took was for a hangover.

Mathilde’s hands are gentle as she bends closer to examine the wounds. The cotton of her shirt whispers over my toes.

‘Are the stitches ready to come out?’ I ask.

‘Not yet.’

They look it to me, but I accept her verdict. ‘How much longer?’

‘Soon. But you can take the bandage off at night. It will do the wounds good to get some air.’

I lower my foot into the water as Mathilde gets up from the bath. I’m conscious of her standing beside me. My arm, resting on the edge, is only inches from her leg. Neither of us looks at the other, but suddenly I’m certain that she’s as aware of me as I am of her.

‘I have to see to dinner,’ she says, but doesn’t act on the words. The steam seems to close around us, veiling us from the rest of the house. I’ve only to move my hand and I’ll touch her. Mathilde’s head is still averted but her lips are parted ever so slightly, her cheeks rouged with a flush not wholly due to the heat. I begin to lift my arm, and as though there’s an invisible connection between us Mathilde reacts at the same time.

She steps away.

‘I’ll put a clean bandage on tomorrow,’ she says.

I grip the edge of the bath and push myself up slightly in the water, as if that was what I intended all the time.

‘OK. Thanks.’

The steam swirls, agitated by the opening and closing of the door as she goes out. After she’s gone it still carries the scent of her. I slide down in the bath and put my head under the water. The house’s quiet is replaced by a submarine echo of bangs and clicks. Eyes closed, I think that Mathilde has come back in. I visualize her standing above me. Or Gretchen.

Or Arnaud.

I jerk upright, streaming water. The bathroom is still empty except for the vapour demons that twist in the invisible currents. The water isn’t the only thing that’s overheated, I think.

Taking up the bar of soap, I begin to wash myself.

‘Who’s Jules?’

Jez freezes in the act of raising his bacon sandwich to his mouth. He sneaks a quick look at me, then sets it back down on the plate.

‘Jules who?’

We’re at the café next door to the language school, which is actually no more than a cluster of first-floor rooms above an insurance broker’s. The café is small and smells of fried food and stewed tea, and there’s a main road noisily running outside its front window. But it’s convenient, and Jez doesn’t care about the aesthetics provided the food’s cheap.

‘Jules as in Chloe.’

He tries to assemble his crumpled features into something like puzzlement. ‘Er … no, I don’t think …’

He’s a bad liar. I’d still held out some hope that I might be wrong, but it dies now. ‘Who is he?’

‘What makes you think I know?’

‘Because you live with Yasmin and she’s Chloe’s best friend.’

‘You should ask Chloe.’

‘Chloe won’t tell me anything. Come on, Jez.’

He rubs the back of his neck unhappily. ‘Yasmin made me promise not to say anything.’

‘I won’t tell her. This is between you and me.’ Jez doesn’t look convinced. ‘Please.’

He sighs. ‘He’s Chloe’s ex. A real shit, but she split up with him ages ago, so it’s past history now.’

I look down at my own coffee. ‘I think she might be seeing him again.’

Jez winces. ‘Fuck. I’m sorry, man.’

‘Does Yasmin know?’

‘That Chloe’s seeing him again? I doubt it. If she does she hasn’t said anything to me. And she hated Jules’s guts.’

Some students from the class I’m due to take pass by outside and wave through the window. I raise my hand, relieved when they don’t come in.

‘Tell me what happened,’ I say.

Jez plays uneasily with his cup. ‘The man’s a real bastard. He’d got some upmarket gym in Docklands, but he calls himself an entrepreneur. Flash sort, but hard as nails, you know?’

I nod. ‘I’ve met him.’

‘So I don’t need to tell you. He gave Chloe a really bad time. She was sort of a trophy for him. You know, good-looking, an artist. Different from his normal type. He bought some of her paintings, that’s how they met. But he was a real control freak, the sort who gets a kick from putting people down, you know? He’s the one who got her onto coke and thrown out of art college.’

‘What?’

Jez looks crestfallen. ‘Shit, I thought you knew.’

This is all news to me. It’s like I’ve stepped into a parallel world. ‘Go on.’

‘Oh, man, Yasmin’s going to kill me.’ He sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. ‘Jules was into that whole drug scene. VIP lounges, clubs, parties. And it wasn’t just steroids you could get at his gym, if you know what I mean. There was this big guy who used to supply him with stuff. Evil bastard, you wouldn’t mess with him.’

That sounds like Lenny. I feel numb. Jez is looking at me worriedly.

‘You sure you want to hear this?’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Yasmin tried to help, but Chloe was … well, you know. Then one night she OD’d on some shit Jules had given her. Yas found her and got her to hospital, then into rehab. She made Chloe change her phone number and move in with her until she was up to getting her own place. Completely cut Jules out of the loop, which pissed him off no end. He made all sorts of threats, trying to find out where Chloe was, but Yas wouldn’t budge. And once Chloe was away from him she got herself straightened out. Started painting again, met you.’ He shrugs. ‘That’s it.’

It’s as if he’s talking about a different person. Now I understand why Yasmin was so angry when Callum produced the coke at Chloe’s celebration. Why she didn’t want her hopes building up over the gallery. Painting was Chloe’s prop, a new addiction to replace the old. And it had been pulled away from her.

The chair scrapes on the floor tiles as I stand up. ‘Sean? Where are you going? Sean!’ Jez shouts after me as I walk out.

I take no notice. I feel as though I’m already too late as I catch a tube back to Earl’s Court. Chloe isn’t at the flat so I search each room, scattering clothes, books and DVD cases. I find it under a loose panel in the bathroom. An innocent plastic box with an airtight lid.

Inside is a small bag of white powder, razor blade and makeup mirror.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table when she comes home from work. She pauses when she sees the box in front of me, then closes the door and begins to take off her coat.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ I ask.

‘I’m tired. Can we do this some other time?’

‘Like when? When you’re in rehab again?’

She hesitates, then turns her back and starts filling the kettle. ‘Who told you? Yasmin?’

‘It doesn’t matter who told me — why didn’t you?’

‘Why should I? It was a long time ago.’

‘And what about this?’ I push the plastic box across the table. ‘Is that from a long time ago as well?’

‘I’m a big girl, I can do what I like.’

‘So what happened to “I’m sorry, I won’t play any more games”?’

She gives a humourless laugh. ‘You call this a game?’

I want to yell at her, but if I give in to it I’m scared I won’t be able to stop. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘Where do you think?’

Even though I’ve known, it still feels like I’ve been punched. I can’t bring myself to say Jules’s name. ‘Jesus Christ, Chloe, why?’

‘Why?’ She bangs down the kettle, water slopping onto the worktop. ‘Because I can’t stand feeling this shit all the time! Because I hate being such a fucking failure! And I’m sick of pretending I’m not! What are we even doing here? I’m working in a bar and you don’t even live in the real world!’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You don’t even know, do you? You think watching films is real life? You don’t even make your own, you just watch other people’s! Other people’s films, other people’s lives, that’s all you know about! Christ, you rave about French films and fucking France, but you never actually go there! When was the last time you even went?’

I sweep the plastic box onto the floor and jump to my feet. Blood pulses behind my eyes.

‘Come on, then!’ she shouts. ‘Just for once in your life, why don’t you do something!’

But I’m already moving past her. I walk out blindly, leaving the sound of Chloe’s sobbing behind me.