‘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.
12
‘I’m bored.’
Gretchen throws down what’s left of the small yellow flower she’s been steadily denuding of petals. I try not to sigh.
‘Come on, try to remember.’ I hold up my fork. ‘What’s the English word for this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes, you do. We’ve done it before.’
She doesn’t even look up. ‘Knife.’
I put the fork back down on my plate. My attempts to teach Gretchen English haven’t exactly been a success, although I admit I’m no more enthusiastic than she is. Conversation with Arnaud’s youngest daughter is hard work at the best of times, and if I push her too much she subsides into her default state of sulk. Still, I promised Mathilde I’d try.
I hadn’t planned on teaching her today, though. I’d gone down to the barn to wash before going to collect my lunch from the house. All morning I’ve been thinking about what happened in the bathroom yesterday, whether I misread the tension between Mathilde and me. Or even imagined it. I’ve wondered if I’d detect any difference in her today, but so far I haven’t had much chance to find out. My breakfast was once again left on the loft steps this morning, and there was no sign of Mathilde in the kitchen when I took the dishes back. I hoped I’d see her when I went for my lunch, if nothing else.
But as I was coming out of the barn, Gretchen arrived with a plate of food. Mathilde had asked her to bring it, she told me with a coy smile, and I knew then that any hope I’d had of a peaceful lunch was gone. If nothing else, trying to teach her English would cover the awkward silences. Not that they ever seem to bother Gretchen.
She lies on her stomach, idly kicking her legs as she plucks another flower from between the overgrown cobbles. She’s wearing a yellow vest top and the faded cut-downs, legs long and tanned, the pink flip-flops hanging from her soiled feet. I draw a circle in the dirt with my finger, then add two lines in its centre pointing to twelve and nine.
‘What time is that?’
‘Boring o’clock.’
‘You’re not even trying.’
‘Why should I? It’s dull.’
‘At least make an effort.’ I sound like the sort of teacher I always used to hate, but Gretchen brings out the worst in me.
She gives me a petulant look. ‘What for? I’m never going to go to England.’
‘You might.’
‘Why, are you going to take me?’
I think — hope — she’s joking. Even so, just talking about going back makes something tighten in my chest. ‘I don’t think your father would like that.’
The mention of Arnaud sobers her, as it usually does. ‘Good. I don’t want to go anyway.’
‘Maybe not, but it doesn’t hurt to learn. You don’t plan on staying on the farm all your life, do you?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
There’s a warning in her voice. ‘No reason. But don’t you want to move out or get married eventually?’
‘How do you know what I want to do? And if I do get married it won’t be to anyone English, so what’s the point of learning the stupid language? There’s plenty of boys round here who’d want to marry me.’