Chapter 1: But You’re...

Sunday 30 June 2013

Of course I remember you. How could I forget that story? This is great news! Not as good as if you’d found your happy ending but still great news. I want to hear everything.

I stared at my phone, not quite able to believe that Chloë Fucking Goodman had not only replied to my text but remembered who I was even though we’d only met once and then only for a couple of hours or so. Granted, during that time I told her my life story and she expressed what a great film it would make if I could find a happy ending, but still...

Then the phone’s ringtone burst into life and the screen was filled with the picture of the movie star that I’d found on the Internet and attached to her address book entry after sending her the text. Just in case, you know?

I looked at the achingly beautiful face on the screen for just a second longer than I would with a normal call, then pressed the screen and slid my finger to the right to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Paul? Paul Robertson? This is you, right? I mean ... this is you?”

“Er ... Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”

“Oh, thank God. I always worry. You know? That number I gave you is for the phone I use for my family and friends. Not many people have that number. Not like my work phone, the one that agents and stuff have—this is gonna sound awful, but I have someone that answers that one for me, like an assistant, well, they are my manager’s assistant, but you know what I mean. Anyway, they, like, either reply to texts and stuff for me, particularly if it’s, like, scheduling and stuff, because they know my schedule better than I do anyway. Or they divert the call to my private phone if they think I need to take it, but it still shows my work phone number on their phone. I don’t know how that works.

“Why am I telling you all this? I don’t know. Anyway, the point is, last year, I gave my number, my private number, out to someone, and the stupid fool lost it. Some random bloke found it and started harassing me. Sending me dirty texts and pictures of his willy and stuff. It was really freaky. I ended up having to change my number. So, I’m glad it’s you. I’d hate to go through that again. I mean, I know it’s my own fault for giving my number to you and stuff, but it’d still be a pain. It is you, right? The guy from the library?”

She’d said all that almost without taking a breath. It was exhausting just listening to her.

“Yes. It’s me. I was sitting at your desk in the library, and you told me to move. But then you sat down with me and we ... we talked.”

“You talked, you mean. I listened.”

“And you listened really well.”

“Thanks. So, what happened next, I guess?”

I shrugged. You know me. “Well...”

“Wait. Where are you? You said you lived in a village in Westmouthshire, right?”

“Micester is more of a town—”

“Micester, right. That’s it. How far is it from town? Westmouth, I mean. Ten minutes? Half an hour?”

“Actually, Chloë ... I’m still in Westmouth. I ... er ... I bought a house here.”

“You bought a house? Damn, you weren’t lying when you said you had some money behind you. Okay, what’s the address? I’ll come right over.”

I was still upstairs when the doorbell rang but figuring it had to be her, I left my desk to go and let her in. I only got as far as the top of the stairs when Mark beat me to it. He’d been in the lounge watching TV. In retrospect, perhaps I should have warned him she was coming. From my spot, I could hear everything.

“Hi, is Paul here?”

“Fuck me, you’re ... But you’re...”

“Yes. I am. Is Paul here? I have got the right house, haven’t I?”

“But you’re Chloë Fucking Goodman! No offence.”

“None taken.” There was a pause. Quite a lengthy one. Then... “Paul? Robertson?”

“Oh. Right. I...” Then he yelled, knowing I was upstairs. “Paul! Visitor.”

I smiled and decided to play along. “Who is it?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“It’s only Chloë Fucking Goodman.” Then, at a more normal volume, he said, again, “No offence.”

“None taken. Again. But seriously, don’t worry about it. It happens all the time. Annoying really because my middle name is actually Susan. Although I don’t like it very much and never use it, so I guess it’s my own fault.”

As I descended the stairs, I heard Imogen, who’d been in the kitchen, say “Mark did you just say—OH MY GOD!”

I saw her flash past the stairs and heard Chloë go “Ooohf” as Imogen slammed into her and hugged her like a long-lost sister.

Imogen finally stepped back when I got to the foot of the stairs, but she took hold of both of Chloë’s hands and, with her wonderful Welsh twang even more evident than usual, she said, “Sorry. I’m sorry, but you’re ... and I mean ... I love you! You’re amazing! I’ve seen everything you’ve ever been in. And I mean everything. And you’re amazing. And I love you. You’re so beautiful. And smart. And beautiful. And I just love you.”

Chloë was smiling a very kindly smile. I got the impression that this sort of thing happened a lot. That was the weird thing about Chloë—the guys all lusted after her because, let’s face it, she was hot, but the girls tended to like her too. She regularly topped polls in girls’ magazines about role models and that sort of shit.

“Paul!” she said, looking right at me. “It is the right house. Thank God! I’d started to worry, you know?”

Imogen turned to face me. “I thought you were joking when you said you’d met her. But you weren’t, were you? You weren’t joking. You really met her.”

I nodded. “And now so have you.”

“I know! It’s amazing. Wait until Nessa hears you were here. She’ll be so jealous, she only left this morning. Oh, I love you, you’re amazing.”

“Why don’t you go into the lounge,” I said to Chloë. “I’ll make a drink and then we can talk.”

“I’ll make it!” said Imogen, rushing back to the kitchen. She stopped, turned and said, “Sorry! What do you want? Tea or Coffee? Or we have some hot chocolate. I think.”

“Coffee’s fine,” Chloë said. “Black. No sugar.”

Imogen nodded and ran into the kitchen while I gestured towards the lounge.

“Hang on,” said Mark. “You can’t go in there.”

“Why not? It’s my lounge.”

“I’m watching the cricket.”

I shrugged. “So?”

“So...? It’s a Roses match.” He saw my blank expression, then explained, “Lancashire against Yorkshire. And we’re beating them!”

“So? You can still watch.”

“Not if you’re going to be talking and shit, I won’t be able to.”

“It’s okay,” said Chloë. “Is there a kitchen table? It seems apt if do this at a table. Like last time.”

“Dining room then,” I said. “There are some bookshelves in there. It’ll feel like the library.”

Chloë giggled. “Hardly. But it’ll do.”

I led her into the dining room and while she sat on one side of the table, I sat opposite.

“This is a nice place,” she said. “I’d ask why you bought it, but I’m guessing it’s part of the story, so I’ll wait. Don’t really want to skip ahead. I do that with scripts sometimes, ‘cause, you know, there’s not really time to read every single word on every single page of every single script I get sent. But I never do it with books. It spoils the fun, don’t you think?”

Before I could reply, Imogen came in with three mugs and a plate of chocolate biscuits on a tray. She put it on the table and gave one to Chloë while I took my mug—the one with a Disney World logo on it that I bought when I was over there.