‘Just now. Callum called.’
‘You OK?’
I don’t bother to answer that. ‘Is Yasmin there?’
‘Yeah, but … I don’t think you should speak to her right now.’
I stare out of my window at a pigeon that’s landed on the ledge. It cocks its head to look at me through the glass. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know much. She’d been using again, though. Yasmin tried to get her to clean up, but you know how it is. She’d started doing some serious stuff.’ There’s a hesitation. ‘You know Jules dumped her?’
I put my head against the wall. ‘When?’
‘A couple of weeks ago. Chloe told Yasmin that Jules was in trouble. I told you he had a gym in Docklands? Well, by the sound of it he thought the old quay it was in was going to be redeveloped, so he bought the entire building. Hocked himself up to the hilt expecting to make a killing, and then the plug got pulled on the redevelopment. So now he owes Lenny, the big guy who’s been supplying him with shit at the gym, as well as some people Lenny does business with. People you really don’t want to owe money to. I don’t know all the details, but Chloe … Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this.’
‘Go on.’
There’s a sigh. ‘Well, Chloe said that Jules was starting to deal more seriously, trying to pay off his debts. He’d got something set up and wanted her to courier for him. As in an all-expenses-paid trip to Thailand.’
‘Jesus.’ I close my eyes.
‘She didn’t, she said no,’ Jez goes on hurriedly. ‘But Jules lost it. Threw her out of his apartment, told her she was a parasite, stufflike that, and then cut her dead. Wouldn’t have anything more to do with her. I think some of it was probably payback for her walking out on him last time, and it must have pushed Chloe over the edge. Yasmin did what she could, but—’
There’s a sudden commotion on the other end of the line. I can hear muffled voices, one of them angry, and then Yasmin comes on.
‘Are you happy now?’ she shouts. She’s crying. ‘You fucking shit, why’d you let her go back to that bastard?’
I rub my temples. ‘It was her choice, Yas.’
‘You left her when she needed you! What did you think she was going to do?’
‘I didn’t ask her to sleep with him and get pregnant!’ I shoot back.
‘You should have given her some fucking support! It could have been yours, but you just walked out and abandoned her!’
‘What?’ My mind’s racing. ‘No, Chloe told me it was his—’
‘And you believed her? Jesus, are you really that fucking stupid? She wanted to make it easy for you, and you let her, didn’t you? You might as well have pushed her yourself, you selfish—’
There’s the sound of a struggle as Jez tries to take the phone. I listen, numbly, as he comes back on, sounding flustered.
‘Sorry, Sean. Yasmin’s … well, you know.’
‘What she said, is it …?’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ he says quickly. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. It’s probably better if you don’t call again. Just for a while. I’m sorry.’
The line goes dead. Yasmin’s words feel like they’re burrowing into me. It could have been yours. Christ, was that true? Coming on top of Chloe’s death, it’s too much to take in. But Yasmin wouldn’t make up something like that. And the two of them were best friends; Chloe would confide things to her she’d never tell anyone else.
Including me.
Knowing I’m only tormenting myself, I scroll through my phone’s logged calls. From what Jez said, Jules must have finished with Chloe around the same time she made that last call to me. And I’d ignored it because I was about to go into a film I didn’t want to see, with people I didn’t know. Her name is still there, close to the end. Seeing it on the glowing screen makes me insanely tempted to call it. Instead I check my voicemail in case I missed a message. But of course there’s nothing.
I feel like I’m suffocating. I hurry out of my flat, pretending to myself that I’m walking aimlessly until, inevitably, I come to Waterloo Bridge. It’s a utilitarian concrete span, streaming with traffic beside the pedestrian walkway. I go to the middle and lean over the parapet, looking down at the slow-moving river. I wonder what it must have felt like, stepping off into nothing. If she was still conscious after she hit the dark water. If she was frightened.
If she thought about me.
I spend the rest of the day getting drunk. From time to time I take out my phone and stare at Chloe’s logged call on the small glowing screen. Several times I’m on the verge of deleting it, but I can’t bring myself to do it. The evening is warm and sunny, and I sit in a bubble of isolation from the other people sharing the pub’s terrace. One moment I’m numb, the next I’m swamped by grief, guilt and anger. Anger is the easiest to bear, and at some point the decision takes hold in my mind as to what I have to do. As the light fades I get up and head unsteadily for the nearest tube station. Jules’s gym is in Docklands. I don’t have an address but it doesn’t matter. I’ll find it.
I’ll find him.
18
Rain thrums on the roof like static from a broken radio.
Outside, water streams and drips over the kitchen window in a steady cascade, like a curtain of glass beads. It’s coming down so heavily that the door and windows are all closed, leaving the kitchen hot and stifling. The rain doesn’t seem to have made it any cooler, and the airless room is claustrophobic and thick with cooking smells.
Mathilde has gone to town with dinner this evening, serving a rare first course of artichokes in butter.
‘What’s the special occasion?’ Arnaud grumbles. Butter varnishes his mouth and chin.
‘No occasion,’ Mathilde tells him. ‘I just thought you’d like a change.’
Her father grunts and goes back to gnawing at the artichoke, nuzzling obscenely at the centre of the splayed leaves. Gretchen all but ignores me as she sullenly helps her sister serve the food.
Georges evidently hasn’t told Arnaud about seeing us in the woods earlier. So far, at least. Either he really does only care about his pigs, like Gretchen says, or he’s learned to turn a blind eye to anything that doesn’t concern him. Either way, I should be relieved.
Instead I feel almost disappointed.
I’ve been in a strange mood all afternoon. There was no question of doing any more work once the rain started. It quickly turned my mortar to sludge, and when the wind picked up as well, buffeting the scaffold with each squall, I’d no choice but to come down. Soaking wet, I went back to the barn and stripped off my wet overalls, then watched the storm through the loft’s window. The landscape outside was transformed, the familiar pastoral scene replaced by a wilder persona. The fields beyond the wind-thrashed trees had been smeared from existence, while the lake was no more than a blur. As thunder rumbled in the distance I contemplated swimming in it now, with its surface shredded by the downpour.
Instead I stayed in the loft, listening to the drumming rain and waiting for the promised lightning. It never materialized, and before long the storm’s novelty had worn thin. Smoking one of my last cigarettes without enjoyment, I tried to read another chapter of Madame Bovary. But my heart wasn’t in it. As the day dragged into evening without any let-up in the downpour, I grew more restless. For the first time in weeks I put my watch back on, watching the seconds tick by to when I’d have to go to the house for dinner. As well as apprehension, there was also a strange sense of anticipation.
Now I’m finally here, though, it’s an anticlimax. Everything carries on as normal. Mathilde comes around with the pan, serving a second artichoke to each of us. They’re small but tender, the meaty flesh of the leaves succulent and soft. I don’t have much appetite, but I accept another all the same. She pours a little hot butter from the pan onto it before moving away, as expressionless as ever.