‘Do you smoke?’
‘No.’
‘Then you shouldn’t start.’
I know I’m being hypocritical but I can’t help it. Gretchen pouts. ‘Why are you in such a bad mood?’
‘I’m just tired. It’s been a busy day.’
She considers that, fingers twirling a hank of black horsehair. ‘How long are you going to stay? Until you’ve finished the whole house?’
‘I don’t know.’ I’m trying hard not to think that far ahead.
‘Papa says you’re running away from something.’
‘Papa doesn’t know everything.’
‘He knows more than you. I’m not sure he even likes you. But if you’re nice to me I’ll put in a good word.’
I don’t say anything to that. Hoping she’ll take the hint and leave, I gather up another T-shirt from the bed. Something falls from it.
It’s the photograph.
‘Who’s that?’ Gretchen asks.
‘No one.’
I go to pick it up but Gretchen beats me to it. She holds the photograph away from me, teasingly.
‘I thought you didn’t have a girlfriend?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Then why are you carrying her picture around with you?’
‘I forgot to throw it away.’
‘Then you won’t care what happens to it.’ Grinning, she picks up the cigarette lighter from the mattress and holds it under the photograph.
‘Don’t,’ I say, reaching for it.
She twists away, still holding the photograph poised over the lighter. ‘Ah-ah, I thought you weren’t bothered?’
‘Look, just give it to me.’
‘Not until you tell me who it is.’ She flicks a flame from the lighter. ‘You’ll have to be quick …’
I make a grab for the photograph. Gretchen gives a delighted laugh and snatches it away, and as she does one corner dips into the flame. There’s a bloom of yellow as the glossy card ignites. Gretchen squeals and drops it. I knock the burning photograph away from the mattress, trying to put it out as the image blackens and curls. But it’s fully alight, and the loft is a tinderbox of dry wood. Snatching up the bottle of water from by the bed I quickly douse the flames.
There’s a hiss as the fire is snuffed out.
A burnt smell fills the loft. I stare at the puddle of ash and water on the floor.
‘You made me burn my fingers,’ Gretchen pouts.
I set the bottle down. ‘You’d better go.’
‘It wasn’t my fault. You shouldn’t have grabbed for it.’
‘Your father will wonder where you are.’
She hesitates, but mention of Arnaud does the trick. I don’t look round as she goes through the trapdoor. When her footsteps have died away I bend down and pick through the wet ash. There’s nothing left of the photograph except a small piece of white border, blackened at the edges.
I let it drop back onto the floor and go to find something to clean up.
Chloe goes missing one night after work. I’ve been out with Callum and a couple of students after the last class. Not to the Domino, though: not any more. Where I used to enjoy being able to look up and see Chloe working behind the bar, anticipating the quiet moments when she’d be able to join us, now there’s no pleasure in it.
‘Do you feel you have to check on me?’ she asked one night, when I’d said I’d see her there later.
‘No,’ I’d said, surprised. ‘If you don’t want me to come, just say so.’
She’d shrugged, turning away. ‘It’s up to you.’
It’s almost one o’clock by the time I leave Callum and walk back to the flat. The smell of oil and turpentine is less strong now. Chloe hasn’t painted since before we went to Brighton, but that’s something we don’t talk about.
She won’t finish at the bar till two at the earliest, so I make myself a coffee and pick out a DVD. I settle on L’Été meurtrier, which like all the others in my collection I’ve seen several times. Chloe claims I like it because Isabelle Adjani spends virtually the entire film naked. She has a point, but the film’s cinematography is beautiful even without that.
I watch the cycle of passion and tragedy run its inevitable course. Only when the film ends do I realize how late it is: Chloe should have been back an hour ago.
No one answers when I phone the bar. I wait it out for another half-hour, then leave a note in case she comes back and set off for the Domino. The streets are empty. I follow the same route to the King’s Road that Chloe and I used to walk, although since I’ve stopped meeting her she usually gets either a lift or a taxi. The doors of the bar are locked, no lights showing from inside, but I bang on them anyway. When the echoes have died down the building remains dark and silent.
I don’t know what to do. I stand on the pavement and look up and down the deserted street, as if I might see her walking towards me. I’ve no idea where most of the bar staff live, but I once went with Chloe to a party at Tanja’s. I don’t even know if she’s been working tonight, but it’s all I can think of.
Even though I walk quickly it’s nearly five o’clock when I reach her flat in Shepherd’s Bush. The entrance is unlit and I have to use the light from my phone to read the names on the intercom. I press hers and wait. It’s cold, but that isn’t why I’m shivering. When she doesn’t answer I press again, and this time keep on pressing.
‘All right, all right, who is it?’ The voice crackles through the intercom, angry and distorted.
‘Tanja, it’s Sean,’ I interrupt, putting my mouth close to the speaker grille. ‘Do you know where—’
‘Sean who?’
‘Chloe’s boyfriend. She—’
‘Jesus, do you know what time it is?’
‘I know, I’m sorry, but Chloe didn’t come home from work. Do you know where she is?’
‘No, why should I?’ She sounds tired and irritable.
My heart sinks. I’d hoped she’d say Chloe was there, that she’d gone to a party. Anything.
‘Did you see her leave?’
‘Yeah, she … Oh, no, that’s right, I left before her tonight. She was still talking to this guy who came in. She said for me to go.’
‘A guy? What guy? Who was he?’
‘Just some guy. Look, I’ve got to get up early tomorrow—’
‘Had you seen him before?’
‘No, I’ve told you, he was just some guy! Flashy, but Chloe seemed to know him. Now can I get back to bed?’
The early-morning workers are beginning to filter onto the streets as I walk back to the flat. The note is still on the kitchen table where I left it. I look in the bedroom to check anyway, but the bed is empty.
At eight o’clock I call Yasmin. I don’t really expect Chloe to be there. She isn’t.
‘Have you called the police?’ Yasmin asks, instantly matter-of-fact.
‘No, not yet.’ That’s a last resort I’ve been putting off. ‘Do you think I should?’
‘Give it till noon,’ she says at last.
It’s nearly eleven o’clock when I hear someone unlocking the door. I’m at the kitchen table, my mouth foul from coffee and fatigue. When Chloe walks in there’s a moment’s breathless relief. She pauses on seeing me, then closes the door.
‘Jesus, where’ve you been? Are you all right?’
‘Yeah.’ She makes a vague gesture. ‘I stayed at a friend’s.’
‘I’ve been worried sick! Why didn’t you call?’
‘It was getting late. I didn’t want to disturb you.’
Chloe won’t look at me. Her face is pale, blue shadows marking the skin under her eyes. The relief I felt has already gone, replaced by something else.
‘What friend?’
‘No one you know.’ She starts moving towards the bathroom. ‘I’ve got to—’
‘What friend?’
Chloe stops with her back to me. ‘Someone I used to know, that’s all.’