Stone Bruises

5

I’m packed and ready to leave when Mathilde comes to the loft next morning. I know who it is before I see her, can already distinguish between her steady tread and the slap of Gretchen’s flip-flops. Her eyes go to the fastened rucksack by the bed, but if she draws any conclusions she keeps them to herself. She’s carrying a tray, on which is a plate of food and a roll of clean bandage. And also an extra treat this morning: a steaming bowl of coffee.

‘I’ve brought your breakfast,’ she says, setting down the tray. ‘Can I change your dressing?’

I sit on the mattress and roll up the leg of my jeans. The bandage is frayed and filthy from my abortive night-time excursion. If not for that I could almost believe I’d dreamed the whole thing. In daylight, the memory of the silent assembly of statues seems unreal, and I’ve convinced myself the scream I heard was only a fox after all. Probably caught in one of Arnaud’s traps.

I can sympathize.

‘Will you drive me to the road later?’ I ask, as Mathilde begins to unfasten the bandage. She makes no comment on its soiled condition.

‘You’re leaving?’

‘Straight after breakfast. I’d like to make an early start.’

The decision was fully formed when I woke. If I can make it down to the wood and back, then I’m fit enough to travel. I could walk to the road on my own, but there’s no point in tiring myself before I start. I still don’t know what I’ll do or where I’ll go, but my latest run-in with Arnaud has convinced me I’m better off taking my chances rather than staying here any longer.

Mathilde continues to unwrap the bandage. ‘Are you sure?’

‘If you can drive me as far as the road I can hitch from there.’

‘As you wish.’

Even though I’ve no reason to, I feel disappointed by her lack of reaction. I watch as she removes the bandage and peels off the dressing pads. When the last covering comes away I’m relieved that my foot doesn’t appear any worse. In fact it seems better; the swelling has gone down and the wounds themselves appear less livid.

‘It doesn’t look as bad, does it?’ I say, hoping for confirmation.

Mathilde doesn’t answer. She gently turns my foot this way and that, then lightly touches the lip of one wound.

‘Does that hurt?’

‘No.’ I study her as she continues to examine it. ‘Is it OK?’

She doesn’t answer. Her face is impassive as she lays her hand on my forehead. ‘Do you feel hot? Feverish?’

‘No. Why?’

‘You look a little flushed.’

She bends over my foot again. I put my hand on my forehead. I can’t tell if it’s hotter or not.

‘Is the infection getting worse?’

There’s the slightest of hesitations before she answers. ‘I don’t think so.’

The yellowish cast of the bruising around the wounds seems to take on a more sinister hue. I watch uneasily as she cleans my foot and begins to wrap it in the fresh bandage.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘I’m sure it’s fine.’ She keeps her head down, denying me her face. ‘Sometimes these things need watching. But I understand if you’re in a hurry to leave.’

I stare down at my foot, wrapped in pristine white again. Suddenly I’m aware of my aching muscles. It might just be from the exertion of the night before, but then again …

‘Maybe I should give it another day?’ I say.

‘If you like. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.’

Mathilde’s expression gives nothing away as she collects her things together and goes back down the steps. When she’s gone I flex my foot, testing it. I don’t feel feverish, but the last thing I need is to fall ill on some deserted French road. And it isn’t as if I’ve anywhere specific to go, or a burning hurry to get there. Not any more. Another day won’t make any difference.

It crosses my mind that maybe this is what Mathilde intended, but I dismiss the idea. My being here has caused her nothing but trouble. She’s no more reason to want me to stay than I have.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. But as I swallow the antibiotic and reach for my breakfast, I’m aware that what I feel more than anything is relief.

By midday the loft is unbearably hot, and the musty scent from the old wooden furniture makes my skin itch. I listen to music and then doze, waking to find my lunch waiting beside the open trapdoor. Rubbing my eyes, I decide to eat it outside. Arnaud warned me to keep out of his sight, but even he can’t expect me to stay in the barn all day.

Going down the steps is tricky with the tray, but I manage by balancing it on them while I clamber down one at a time. Before I eat I use the outhouse and wash myself under the tap in the barn where Georges filled his buckets. The small act of self-sufficiency lifts my spirits, and I feel almost cheerful as I settle myself against the barn’s wall. Even in the shade it’s still stiflingly hot. As I chew the bread and cheese, I look over the vine field towards the lake. From where I sit, there’s just the glimmer of water visible through the trees. There don’t seem to be any ill effects from my stupid attempt to reach it last night. No fever has developed, no throb of renewed infection. Only an increasing tension that has nothing to do with my foot. God knows where I’ll be this time tomorrow, but it’d be good to at least see the lake before I go.

Finishing my food, I settle myself on the crutch and set off down the track. In the daylight I can see that the vines look half dead. The leaves are mottled and curling at the edges, and the sparse clusters of grapes droop like tiny deflated balloons. No wonder the wine smells so bad.

The sun is merciless. I thought it would be easier walking on the track now I can see what I’m doing, but in the heat it seems longer than it did last night. It’s rutted and uneven, with tyre marks set into it like concrete casts. The crutch skids and slips, and by the time I get to the end of the field I’m soaked with sweat. It’s a relief to reach the shade of the wood. The trees don’t seem remotely threatening in the daylight. Like the ones nearer the road, they’re mainly chestnuts, and I’m grateful to be under their green canopy.

As I follow the track through them I find myself listening for a repetition of the scream I heard the night before. But there’s nothing more sinister than the chirrup of crickets. The statues too have lost their menacing aspect. There are about a dozen of the stone figures by the track, clustered apparently at random in the thickest part of the wood. All are weathered and old, and now I see that most are damaged. A broken-hoofed Pan capers next to a featureless nymph, while nearby a noseless monk seems to raise his eyes in shock. Standing slightly apart from the others is a veiled woman, the stone artfully carved to resemble folds of cloth covering her face. A dark oil stain mars one of the hands clasped to her heart, staining it like blood.

I can’t imagine what they’re doing hidden away in the trees, but I decide I like the effect. Leaving them to their slow decay, I carry on down the track.

The lake isn’t much further. Sunlight glints off it, dazzlingly bright. Edged with reeds, the water is so still it looks as though you could scoop a hole in its surface. Ducks, geese and waterbirds glide across it, dragging V-shaped trails in their wake. I breathe in the scented air, feeling the knots of tension ease from my shoulders. I’m realistic enough this morning to know that I won’t be going swimming, but the thought is no less seductive.

I walk up to the top of a bluff that overlooks the lake. A lone chestnut tree stands there, spreading its branches out over the water. It looks deep enough to dive into from here, but then I notice a murky shadow lurking like a basking shark a few yards out. A submerged rock, waiting for anyone careless enough to jump in from the bluff. I should have known, I think. Even the lake has traps in it.

I lower myself to the ground, leaning back against the tree as I gaze out over the water. Coming down here has been tiring but I’m glad I made the effort. I won’t get another chance, and my foot doesn’t seem any worse. The bandage Mathilde put on earlier is already grubby, but there are no fresh bloodstains and the ache is becoming more of an itch. My anxiety’s cost me another day, but there’ll be nothing to stop me leaving tomorrow. And then what?

I don’t know.

If there’s an upside to having stepped in the trap, it’s that it’s taken my mind off everything else. While I’ve been here I’ve been too preoccupied to worry about past or future, but that’s about to end. One more night and then I’ll be back where I started. On the run in a foreign country, with no idea what I’m going to do.

My hands are trembling as I reach for my cigarettes, but before I can light one the springer spaniel erupts from the woods. The ducks on the edge of the lake scatter noisily as it charges after them. Arnaud, I think, stiffening, but it isn’t Papa who follows. It’s Gretchen and the baby.

The spaniel notices me first. It runs up to where I’m sitting under the tree, stubby tail thrashing.

‘Good girl.’

Glad of the distraction, I fuss over it and try to keep it from trampling on my foot. Gretchen stops now that she’s seen me. She’s wearing a sleeveless cotton dress, a pale blue that accentuates her colouring. It’s thin and faded, and her legs are bare except for flip-flops. But she’d still turn heads in any city street.

She carries the baby, Michel, perched on one hip like an undeveloped Siamese twin. A faded red cloth, corners knotted to form a bag, dangles from her free hand.

‘Sorry if I startled you,’ I say.

She glances towards the track, as if debating whether she should go back. Then her dimples make a fleeting appearance.

‘You didn’t.’ She hoists the baby to a more comfortable position, flushed from carrying him in the heat. She raises the red cloth. ‘We’ve come to feed the ducks.’

‘I thought it was only people in towns who did things like that.’

‘Michel likes it. And if they know they’re going to be fed they’ll stay here, so we can take one every now and then.’

‘Take’ being a euphemism for ‘kill’, of course. So much for sentiment. Gretchen unfastens the cloth and tips out the bread, sending the birds into a frenzy of splashing. Their raucous cries are joined by the dog’s barks as it prances at the edge of the water.

‘Lulu! Here, girl!’

She throws a stone for the spaniel. As it chases after it she comes up to the top of the bluff and sits down nearby, setting the baby down beside her. He finds a twig and starts playing with it.

I look back at the track, half-expecting to see Arnaud there with his rifle. But the wood is empty. I’m starting to feel uneasy, although I’m not sure if that’s the thought of her father or if it’s just being around Gretchen. She seems in no hurry to get back. The only sound is the dog chewing on the stone and Michel blowing spit bubbles. Apart from the ducks and geese, we’re the only living souls here.

Giving a theatrical sigh, Gretchen takes hold of the front of her dress and wafts it back and forth.

‘I’m too hot,’ she says, glancing to see if I’m looking. ‘I thought it might be cooler by the lake.’

I keep my eyes fixed on the water. ‘Do you ever swim here?’

Gretchen stops fanning herself. ‘No, Papa says it isn’t safe. Anyway, I can’t swim.’

She begins picking the tiny yellow flowers that grow in the grass and making them into a chain. The silence doesn’t seem to bother her, though I can’t say the same. Suddenly it’s shattered by the same scream I heard last night. It comes from the woods behind us, not as unsettling in daylight but sounding no less agonized.

‘What was that?’ I ask, staring into the trees.

Neither Gretchen nor Michel seems concerned. Even the dog only pricks up its ears before resuming its gnawing. ‘It’s just the sanglochons.’

‘The what?’ She’s mentioned them before, I remember.

‘Sanglochons,’ she repeats, as if I’m an idiot. ‘They’re a cross between wild boars and pigs. Papa breeds them, but they smell bad so we keep them in the wood. They’re always squabbling over food.’

I’m relieved that’s all it was. ‘So this is a pig farm?’

‘No, of course not!’ Gretchen says, giving me a reproving glance. ‘The sanglochons are just Papa’s hobby. And it’s not a farm, it’s a chateau. We own the lake and all of the woods round here. We’ve nearly a hundred hectares of chestnut trees we harvest every autumn.’

She sounds proud, so I assume that must be a lot of chestnuts. ‘I’ve seen that you make your own wine as well.’

‘We used to. Papa wanted to call it Château Arnaud. He got a good deal on some vines and dug up our beet fields, but the grapes weren’t hardy enough for our soil. They got some sort of blight, so we only produced one vintage. We’ve still got hundreds of bottles, though, and Papa says we’ll be able to sell them once they’ve matured.’

I think about the sour-smelling bottles in the barn and hope they aren’t planning on selling them any time soon. Gretchen picks another flower and works it into the plait. She looks at me over the top of it.

‘You don’t talk about yourself very much, do you?’

‘There’s not much to say.’

‘I don’t believe you. You’re just trying to be mysterious.’ She gives a smile that shows off her dimples. ‘Come on, tell me something. Where are you from?’

‘England.’

She gives my arm a playful slap. It hurts. ‘I mean whereabouts?’

‘I’ve been living in London.’

‘What do you do there? You must have a job.’

‘Nothing permanent. Bars, building sites.’ I shrug. ‘A bit of English teaching.’

There’s no clap of thunder, and the ground doesn’t split. Gretchen picks another flower and seems about to ask something else, but the dog chooses that moment to drop the stone it’s been chewing on my lap.

‘Oh, thanks a lot.’

I gingerly lift the saliva-coated offering and fling it away. The dog tears down the bluff and slows to a confused stop when the stone splashes into the water. It stares after it then back at me, heartbroken.

Gretchen laughs. ‘She’s so stupid.’

I find another stone and call the dog. It’s still distracted by the loss of the first, which was evidently its favourite, but catches on when I throw the substitute into the trees. Happy again, it sprints after it.

‘Gretchen’s a German name, isn’t it?’ I ask, glad of the chance to change the subject.

She adds another flower to the chain. ‘Papa’s family were from Alsace. I’m named after my grandmother. And Michel here has Papa’s middle name. It’s important to keep the family traditions going.’

‘Who’s Mathilde called after?’

Gretchen’s expression turns hard. ‘How should I know?’

She plucks a flower so forcefully its roots come up with the stem. Discarding it, she picks another. I try to lighten the atmosphere. ‘So, how old’s Michel?’

‘He’ll be one in autumn.’

‘I haven’t seen his father. Is he from around here?’

I’m only trying to make conversation but Gretchen’s face hardens even more. ‘We don’t talk about him.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

After a moment she gives a shrug. ‘It’s no secret. He left before Michel was born. He let us all down. We welcomed him into our family, and he betrayed us.’

That sounds like her father talking, but I keep any more comments to myself. Threading one last flower onto the link, Gretchen connects the two ends and loops the chain around Michel’s neck. He grins, then snaps it in his small fist.

A blankness comes over Gretchen’s features, as if someone’s taken hold of the skin and pulled it back. She slaps his arm, harder than she hit mine.

‘Bad boy!’ Her nephew starts to howl. I’m not surprised: her hand has left a red imprint on his chubby little arm. ‘Bad, bad boy!’

‘It was only an accident,’ I say, worried she’s going to slap him again.

For a second I think she might hit me instead. Then, as suddenly as it came, the mood passes. ‘He’s always doing things like that,’ she says, throwing the broken flower chain aside. She picks up her nephew and cuddles him. ‘Come on, Michel, don’t cry. Gretchen didn’t mean it.’

I’d say she did, but the baby is more easily persuaded. His howls subside to hiccups and soon he’s chuckling again. After Gretchen’s wiped his eyes and nose the entire incident is forgotten. ‘I’d better take him back,’ she says, climbing to her feet. ‘Are you coming?’

I hesitate. I’d rather stay by the lake, and then there’s her father to consider. ‘No, I’d better not.’

‘Why, are you scared of Papa?’ She grins.

I don’t know how to answer that. The man’s already threatened me with a rifle and kicked me downstairs, and I’m in no rush to provoke him any further. But the accusation still rankles.

‘I think it’s better if I keep out of his way, that’s all.’

‘Don’t worry. He has a bad back so he goes to bed after lunch. And Georges goes home for his, so there’s no one to tell.’

She’s waiting for me to go with them. It doesn’t seem as though I’ve got much choice, so with a last look at the lake I manoeuvre myself inelegantly to my feet. Gretchen slows to allow me to keep up as we walk back through the woods, hip thrust out to support the baby’s weight, legs long and tanned below the paleblue dress. Her flip-flops scuff on the dirt track, beating out a counterpoint to the scrape of my crutch. A late-afternoon hush has settled. It seems even more pronounced when we reach the statues, the stone figures lending it the quiet of a church nave.

‘What are these doing here?’ I ask, pausing to catch my breath.

Gretchen barely glances at them. ‘Papa’s going to sell them. He started collecting them years ago. You’d be surprised what old châteaux have in their gardens.’

‘You mean he stole them?’

‘Of course not! Papa isn’t a thief!’ she retorts. ‘They’re only old statues, and the places they’re from were all empty. How could it be stealing if no one lived there?’

I doubt the owners would see it that way, but I’ve upset Gretchen enough for one afternoon. And the walk has taken more out of me than I thought. The dog runs on ahead as we emerge from the woods and start across the dry vine field. The sun is still hot but lower now, so our shadows stretch ahead of us like spindly giants. I labour along with my head down, too tired to talk. By the time we’ve reached the barn I’m slick with sweat and my leg muscles are twitching with fatigue.

Gretchen pushes her hair back behind her ear as we stop by the doorway, an unconscious echo of her sister. ‘You’re all sweaty,’ she says, dimpling a smile. ‘You should practise on your crutch more. I take Michel for a walk most afternoons. If you like I could meet you at the lake again tomorrow.’

‘I won’t be here,’ I tell her. ‘I’m leaving in the morning.’

Saying the words makes it more real. Just the thought of it feels like stepping off a cliff.

Gretchen stares. ‘You can’t leave! What about your foot?’

‘I’ll manage.’

Her face hardens. ‘This is Mathilde’s fault, isn’t it?’

‘Mathilde? No, of course not.’

‘She’s always spoiling things. I hate her!’

The sudden venom takes me aback. ‘It’s nothing to do with Mathilde. I need to go, that’s all.’

‘Fine. Go then.’

She walks away, leaving me standing there. I sigh, staring into the dark interior of the barn. I wait till I’ve caught my breath, then begin the long haul back up the wooden steps to the loft.

I sleep for a few hours and wake to find that the sun has gone from the loft. It’s still hot and close but there’s a dusky quality to the light that suggests it’s getting late. When I look at my watch I see it’s after eight. No sign of dinner yet. I wonder whether it’s delayed or if I’ve upset Arnaud or Gretchen enough not to get anything.

I’m not sure I could eat anyway.

I go downstairs and wash under the barn’s tap. The icy water takes my breath away but makes me feel a little better. Then I sit down outside to watch the sun’s slow descent. As it slides behind the chestnut wood I light up a cigarette. It’s my last, but finding a supermarket or a tabac can be my first objective tomorrow. After that …

I’ve no idea.

The glowing tip of my cigarette is almost down to my fingers when I hear footsteps coming from the courtyard. It’s Mathilde, carrying a tray on which I’m surprised to see is a bottle of wine as well as a plate of steaming food.

I start to climb awkwardly to my feet. ‘Don’t get up,’ she says, setting the tray down beside me. ‘I’m sorry dinner’s late. Michel has gripe and wouldn’t settle.’

Even though I’d told myself it didn’t matter, I’m glad there’s a mundane reason. Though I daresay Michel is less pleased.

‘Smells great,’ I tell her. And it does: pork and chestnuts, with sautéed potatoes and a green salad. It’s a pity I’m not hungry.

‘I thought you might like some wine tonight. It’s only our own, but it’s not too bad with food.’

‘What’s the occasion?’ I wonder if it’s meant to mark my departure.

‘No occasion. It’s just wine.’ She pours the water glass half full of dark liquid. ‘Are you still intending to leave tomorrow?’

I wonder what Gretchen’s told her. Maybe nothing, and I’m just flattering myself. ‘Yes.’

‘What are your plans?’

‘Nothing concrete.’

It doesn’t sound so bad when I say it like that. Mathilde tucks her hair behind one ear.

‘You could always stay here. We could use some help on the farm.’

It’s so far from anything I expect that I think I’ve misunderstood. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘If you don’t have to go straight away then there’s work here that needs doing. If you’re interested.’

‘You’re offering me a job?’

‘Apart from Georges, there are only the three of us. We could use an extra pair of hands, and Gretchen told me you’ve been a builder.’ Her hand goes to tuck her hair back again. ‘You must have seen the condition of the house. The walls badly need repairing.’

‘I’ve worked on building sites but that isn’t the same thing. Why don’t you hire a local builder?’

‘We can’t afford to,’ she says simply. ‘We won’t be able to pay you very much, but you’d be living here free. You’d have your meals. And we wouldn’t expect you to start straight away. You can wait until you’re stronger and then work at your own pace. Whatever you feel you can do.’

I pass my hand across my face, trying to think. ‘What about your father?’

‘Don’t worry about him.’

Right. ‘He does know about this, doesn’t he?’

The grey eyes are unreadable. ‘I wouldn’t ask you if not. My father can be stubborn but he’s a realist. The work needs doing and since Providence has brought you here … It would be good for all of us.’

Providence. Nothing to do with her father’s traps, then. ‘I don’t know …’

‘You don’t have to decide now. Take your time. I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to leave tomorrow.’

She rises gracefully to her feet. In the dusk her features are solemn and more indecipherable than ever.

‘Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.’

I watch her walk out of sight around the corner of the barn. Stunned, I take a drink of wine and grimace.

‘God …’

It won’t win any prizes but it’s strong. I risk another sip, trying to collect my thoughts. Even though I’ve no idea what I’ll do or where I’ll go, I’ve been psyching myself up to leave because I didn’t think I had a choice. Now I have. Staying here won’t solve anything, but it’ll give me breathing space to think things through. I can at least wait until my foot’s healed before making any major decisions.

God knows, the last thing I need is to rush into anything else.

The sun has almost set, leaving only its last golden shout to echo on the horizon. I fork up some of the pork. It’s strong and gamy, cooked with garlic and so tender it falls apart. I take another drink of wine and refill my glass. Mathilde’s right: it is better with food, though that isn’t saying much. Still, the alcohol and powerful flavours give me a pleasant buzz.

At some point I realize that the depression that’s been hanging over me has lifted. I pour myself another glass of wine and look out over the wood to the distant fields. The only sound is the evening chorus of crickets. There are no cars, no people. The peace is absolute.

It’s a perfect place to hide.

We go to Brighton on the money Chloe gets for a painting. The buyer is an art dealer who’s opening a gallery in Notting Hill. He wants the painting, a cold still life of blues and purples that I privately find too sombre, for himself, and commissions another six to hang in the gallery when it opens.

‘It’s happening!’ Chloe whoops after she’s taken his call. She throws herself on me, arms and legs wrapping around mine. ‘At last, it’s really happening!’

That night we celebrate at the Domino. Chloe’s working but finishes early, bringing over a couple of bottles of cava she says are from the manager.

‘Tight bastard,’ Yasmin grumbles. ‘It wouldn’t hurt him to have given you champagne.’

Chloe’s high even without the alcohol, fizzing with plans and excitement.

‘God, I can’t believe it! He’s got contacts in Paris and New York that he says are coming for the opening! And the art critic for the Daily Mail is going to be there!’

‘I didn’t know the Daily Mail had an art critic,’ Jez mutters. Yasmin elbows him and gives him a look.

Chloe either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care. She’s swigging cava like water. ‘God, I’ll finally be able to leave this place! Paint full time and tell all the ad agencies to shove it!’

Callum has brought a gram of coke as his contribution to the party. At our table in a darkened booth, he chops out lines on the back of a magazine with the edge of a credit card.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Yasmin hisses.

‘It’s all right, it’s only a bit of blow. No one can see. Sean, you want some?’

‘No, thanks.’

I’ve never been into coke. As far as I know, neither has Chloe, so I expect her to decline as well. To my surprise, she doesn’t.

‘You sure?’ I ask.

‘Why not?’ She grins. ‘It’s a celebration, isn’t it?’

‘Chloe …’ Yasmin warns.

‘It’s OK, don’t worry,’ she says, accepting Callum’s offer of a second line. ‘It’s just this once.’

Yasmin leans over to me as I refill my glass from the bottle. ‘Don’t let her have any more.’

‘She’s just enjoying herself,’ I tell her. Yasmin is OK but sometimes she can be too intense. ‘Why shouldn’t she? She deserves this.’

‘And what if it doesn’t work out? She doesn’t deal well with disappointment.’

‘Oh, come on, Yasmin. Lighten up.’

She glares at me. ‘Are you really this stupid?’

I stare after her, surprised and stung, as she pushes back her chair and walks away. Well, somebody’s jealous, I think.

Brighton is Chloe’s idea. She’s so on edge the week before the gallery opening that her fingernails are bitten to the quick. She works at her paintings all day, literally until she has to run out of the door to take her shift at the Dom.

‘Let’s go away,’ she says, when they’ve been delivered to the gallery.

‘Suits me. After the opening we can—’

‘No, now. The waiting’s driving me mad. I need to get away now.’

The resort town is dazzling white, all sunshine and brightness after the dour sprawl of London. We hitch down rather than trust Chloe’s car, which is only good now for increasingly short distances. Buying a new one is a priority if all goes well with her paintings. She’s full of plans and ideas, convinced that the turning point in her career has been reached. In some of the wilder moments I remember Yasmin’s warning, but Chloe’s new optimism is so contagious it sweeps aside any doubts.

We stop in a seafront pub and pay a ridiculous price for beers, reckless on the promise of Chloe’s success and being on holiday. Afterwards we trawl charity and second-hand shops for picture frames that she can re-use for her own work. We don’t find any, but buy an old instant camera that comes with half a dozen peel-apart films. We use them all on the seafront, counting down out loud as we wait for them to develop, only to find blank squares of emulsion underneath. Just one picture takes, of Chloe standing in front of the pier grinning as she poses like a model. She hates it but I hold it out of her reach when she laughingly tries to snatch it away. At her insistence, we book into a B&B that’s well above our budget and eat a garlic-laden dinner in an Italian restaurant. We’re more than a little drunk when we go back to the hotel, shushing each other in a fit of giggles as we unlock our room, and then make even more noise making love.

After three days we catch the train back to London, an indulgence Chloe grandly insists we can now afford. We arrive back in the late afternoon, to the news that the gallery owner has been declared bankrupt, the gallery’s opening cancelled and all its assets seized. Including Chloe’s paintings.

‘They can’t do that! The bastards, they can’t just do that!’

I try to tell her she’ll get the paintings back eventually, but I know it isn’t just them. It’s the opportunity they represented.

‘Leave me alone,’ she says flatly when I try to console her.

‘Chloe …’

‘I mean it! Just leave me alone!’

So I do. I’m glad for the excuse to go out. I want some time to come to terms with this myself, not so much the disappointment as the shameful sense of relief I felt when I heard. Nothing is going to change after all.

I consider calling Callum but I don’t really want to talk to anyone. There’s a retrospective season of French film at an art-house cinema in Camden. Along with half a dozen people I sit through a back-to-back screening of Alain Resnais’s Muriel and Hiroshima, Mon Amour. Then the lights go up and I’m back in the here and now, in a world that seems so much less vivid than the monochrome ones I’ve just been watching.

It’s raining outside, and the buses are full of commuters on their way home. When I get back the flat is in darkness. I switch on the lights. Chloe is sitting on the floor, the torn and broken canvases of her art scattered around her. Tubes of oil paint have been squeezed and discarded, smearing everything in a rainbow frenzy. The easel holding my unfinished portrait has been knocked over, the painting stamped on.

Chloe doesn’t acknowledge me. Her face is streaked where she’s dragged her oil-coated fingers across it. I pick my way gingerly through the littered canvases, slipping a little on a patch of paint. When I sit beside her and pull her to me she doesn’t resist.

‘It’ll be all right,’ I tell her, emptily.

‘Yeah,’ she says. Her voice is the only thing in the paintsmeared room that’s dull. ‘Of course it will.’