‘He was a jobbing actor who got lucky,’ Chloe says. She darts a quick look at me to show she’s deliberately baiting Callum. As ever, he bites.
‘Bollocks! I’ve got one thing to say to you, Chloe. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. That’s it.’ He sits back, crossing his arms as if the argument’s won.
‘That was a dream role. Any halfway decent actor could have run away with it,’ Yasmin says, rolling her eyes. Her hair is tied back tonight, and she’s wearing the loose dark clothes that Chloe once confided show she’s feeling self-conscious about her weight.
‘Oh, come on! What about Chinatown? Or The Departed?’
‘What about them?’ Chloe begins ticking off on her fingers. ‘Witches of Eastwick. Mars Attacks. Batman. Best actor of his generation? Sure.’
Jez furrows his brow. ‘Batman was OK. Not as good as The Dark Knight, though.’
No one takes any notice of him. He’s been drinking all night and looks even more crumpled than usual, which is saying something. Like Callum, he’s a teacher at the language school in Fulham where I’ve been working for the past few months. Yasmin, his girlfriend and Chloe’s best friend from art college, used to work there as well before she got a better-paying job at the university.
I love Friday nights. Classes finish early, and afterwards a group of us will go for a drink before heading for one of the independent cinemas that are within a few tube stops of the school. Callum is passionate about film but blows hot and cold about his favourite actors, writers, directors. Not so many weeks before it was Terrence Malick he’d raved about. Recently, though, we’d seen a screening of Carnal Knowledge, so for the next few weeks Jack Nicholson was going to be It.
I take a drink of beer and stroke Chloe’s thigh under the table. She squeezes my hand and smiles, then stretches and pushes back her chair.
‘I’d better be getting back.’
She bends and kisses me, her short hair momentarily touching my face, then goes over to the bar. The Domino is off the King’s Road, close to one of our regular cinemas, but the main reason we go there is because it’s where Chloe works. Dark and modern, with cool blue lights illuminating the bottles behind the black granite counter, we’d never be able to afford to come here if Chloe couldn’t get us cheap drinks. She says her manager knows, so I suppose it must be OK. Still, I sometimes wonder if he realizes how generous he’s being.
I watch her go behind the bar, laughing at something Tanja, one of the other girls, says as she begins serving.
‘Chloe’s doing all right, isn’t she?’ Yasmin says.
I turn to see that she’s watching Chloe too. ‘Sure. Why shouldn’t she be?’
Yasmin smiles, throwing the comment away with a shrug. ‘No reason. I was just thinking out loud.’
It seems an odd thing to say. But I’m distracted when I hear Callum begin rubbishing Kurosawa.
‘Please, tell me you don’t mean that,’ I say, setting down my beer.
Five minutes later I’ve forgotten what Yasmin said.
But I remember again later that night. I have to wait until the last customers have gone, and Chloe has wiped down the bar and put away all the glasses, before we can go home.
Outside, Tanja is waiting for a lift from her boyfriend. We say goodnight and then set off back to the flat. It’s too late for the tube and taxis are a rare luxury, but Earl’s Court isn’t too far to walk. It’s cold, though. There’s a full moon, and the beginnings of frost on the pavement glint like diamond chippings.
I open my coat and wrap it around us. Chloe puts her arm around me, a source of warmth against my chest. The shops we pass are shuttered and closed, the wire-clad placards for yesterday’s London Evening Standard already old news. I suppose I should feel more nervous walking through this part of town at this time of night, but I never do. I’ve grown used to it, and with Chloe working at the bar it seems too familiar to harbour any threat.
We’re laughing, quietly so as not to wake anyone, as we cross the road to the flat. Parked cars line the street, dark metal outlines that radiate cold. Out of the corner of my eye I see a figure detach from the shadows and head for us.
I keep walking, my arm protectively around Chloe. The man is a tall and bulky shape in a thickly padded coat. He’s wearing a beanie hat pulled down almost to his eyes.
‘Got the time?’ he asks.
His hands are in his coat pockets, but on the wrist of one I can see the gleam of a watch. My heart starts racing. We should have got a taxi.
‘Ten past three,’ I say, barely glancing at my own watch. It’s a new one, a birthday present from Chloe. Without being obvious I try to put myself in front of her as he comes closer. One of his hands begins to slide from its pocket, and something metallic glints in the moonlight.
‘Lenny?’
The man stops. From the way he sways he’s either drunk or on something. Chloe steps forward.
‘Lenny, it’s me. Chloe.’
He looks at her for a moment, then gives the slightest of nods. His chin lifts in my direction. ‘Who’s this?’
‘A friend.’
She’s trying to hide it but I can hear the tightness in her voice. Whoever this man is, she’s scared of him.
‘A friend,’ he echoes.
His hand is still halfway out of his pocket, as though he’s not yet made a decision. I draw breath to speak, to ask who he is and what’s going on. But Chloe clamps hold of my arm, squeezing it to silence me.
‘Well … ’bye, Lenny.’
She pulls me away. Lenny stays where he is, but I can feel him staring after us. My legs move stiffly. When we reach the other side of the road I look back.
The street is empty.
‘Who was that?’
I’m angry to realize I’m half-whispering. I feel Chloe shiver. Her face looks small and pale, whether from the cold or something else I can’t tell.
‘No one. I’m frozen, let’s get inside.’
Our flat is on the top floor of a squat concrete block. We go up the stairwell that always smells of piss and unlock the door. The fumes of turpentine and oil paints settle thickly on the back of my tongue as soon as we enter. The place is hardly an ideal artist’s studio, but the rent’s affordable and the skylights set into the flat roof make it bright, if cold. Chloe’s paintings are stacked against the living-room walls, white-edged rectangles whose images it’s too dark to see. I’d been surprised at first by how representational her style is, expecting it to be bolder and more abstract. Instead there’s an impressionistic quality and an almost chiaroscuro treatment of light that reminds me of film noir. I like it, although I have secret doubts about the unfinished portrait of me that stands on an easel by the window. Technically it’s one of her best, but the expression on the face isn’t one I recognize. Maybe I just don’t know myself very well.
Neither of us makes any move to put on the light. I stand in the bedroom doorway, watching as Chloe switches on the electric fire. A faint hum comes from it as the elements begin to snap and glow yellow.
‘So are you going to tell me what that was about?’
Chloe keeps her back to me as she begins to undress. ‘Nothing. He’s just someone I used to know.’
Something swells in my chest and throat. It takes me a moment to realize it’s jealousy.
‘You mean you used to go out with him?’
‘With Lenny?’ Her shock is unfeigned. ‘God, no.’
‘What, then?’
She comes over to me in her underwear. ‘Sean …’
I move her arms from around me. I don’t know whether I’m angry because I felt helpless outside, or because I suddenly feel I don’t know her. She sighs.