When I arrive back at the house, I find Freya sitting at the table in the kitchen colouring, while Dad is standing by the stove, stirring the simmering contents of a pan and consulting a tatty old notebook with all the concentration of a scientist mixing volatile chemicals.
‘Something smells good,’ I say, as I go over and give Freya a hug – much needed after my run-in with Elaine, and my conversation with Flora.
‘Look, Mummy.’ Freya shows me a drawing she’s in the process of making, in which stick-figure versions of herself, Dad, me and another smaller figure with dark hair are floating above the lawn in front of a house.
‘Bolognese,’ Dad calls over his shoulder. ‘Your mother’s recipe.’
That explains the wonderful smell, and why he’s looking at the notebook so intently.
Mum wrote down all sorts of recipes for him before she died, worried he would attempt to subsist solely on red wine and cheese sandwiches after she was gone, which he mostly does.
‘Is that Daddy?’ I ask Freya, pointing at the dark-haired stick figure.
‘It’s Chloe,’ she says, with a puzzled look, as if the likeness is obvious.
‘Of course it is. Silly me,’ I say. ‘And are you playing in the garden?’
She nods, then takes the picture back, selects a green crayon and starts colouring in the grass.
‘Would your friend like to join us?’ Dad says, turning to look at me, and it takes me a moment to realise that he’s talking about Chloe too.
‘She’s still here?’
Dad tastes the sauce, licks his lips, then gently lobs the spoon in the direction of the sink where it lands with a rattle. ‘Assume so,’ he says. ‘I haven’t heard her leave.’
I thought she’d have gone home hours ago. Perhaps the opportunity to rifle through the archive, or flick through old film magazines, proved too hard to resist, which is fine by me. In fact, I’m glad she’s still here. On the walk back from Connor’s, I had an idea of how I could thank her for her hard work.
I head out of the kitchen and up the stairs. When I open the door to the office, I find Chloe, sitting in the swivel chair that no longer swivels, though she isn’t reading magazines, or looking through old papers. She has her coat on, looks about ready to leave.
The office looks tidier than it has in years. All the papers, tapes, folders and equipment have been neatly stowed away, or arranged in piles. I can’t remember the room ever being this organised, not even when Mum was using it as her study.
‘Oh, wow. Thank you, Chloe,’ I say. ‘You really didn’t have to do this. But I won’t lie, I’m very glad that you did.’
She shrugs, says nothing.
‘Would you like to stay for dinner?’ I ask. ‘Dad’s making pasta. He’s not much of a cook, but it’s my mum’s recipe. It should be good, as long as he can read the instructions.’
Dad once offered me Mum’s notebook of recipes to take home with me, said I’d have more use for it than he would, but when I looked through it, I saw the way her handwriting gradually deteriorated as I turned each page, and found the thought of keeping it too painful. I slipped it back onto his bookshelf without a word.
‘No, thank you,’ Chloe says. She stands. ‘I should probably get going, now that you’re back.’
‘Oh, OK. Of course,’ I say. I’m a little disappointed, but she’s been here all day. She’s probably tired, perhaps even a little bored.
I hold up a finger. ‘Before you go, I’ve got something for you.’
I scan the newly organised shelves until I find what I’m looking for, take down an old canvas camera bag and set it on the desk, open it and reach inside. I pull out a silver Sony Camcorder, enjoying the brief flash of memories that accompany the feel of the plastic in my hand: glimpses of Mum and Dad at Christmas; Martin, Amy and Connor, larking around and pulling faces.
I offer it to Chloe, a tingle of pleasure in my stomach at the thought of how happy it will make her.
‘I thought maybe you’d like to have this. It was one of my first cameras. It’s pretty old, but I bet you can still get tapes for it on eBay. Some of the footage I shot on this ended up in Born Killer. I can show you how it works, if you’d like, and you can get some practice filming?’
Chloe looks down at the camera. I see a brief flicker of interest in her eyes before she looks away. ‘No thank you,’ she says, her voice flat and disinterested. ‘You can keep it.’
I don’t understand. I thought she’d be delighted, because while the camera is old, and getting hold of tapes for it probably will be a pain, it should still work just fine. Plus, what I’m holding in my hands is a genuine piece of Born Killer history. What fan wouldn’t want to own that?
I put the camera down. ‘What is it?’ I say. ‘Is this because I left you here on your own this afternoon? I’m sorry, I know today was a little boring, but sometimes working in film is like that. It’s dull. Waiting around, doing paperwork, tidying up. But you didn’t have to stay. I honestly wouldn’t have minded if you’d gone home.’
Chloe shakes her head. ‘It’s not that,’ she says.
‘Well, what is it then?’
She glares at me from under her fringe, and I can’t quite place the look in her eyes. For a moment I’d swear that she hates me.
‘I know you lied,’ she says. ‘I know that you betrayed Amy.’
Where on earth has this come from?
‘What are you talking about?’ I say, as Chloe reaches inside her coat and pulls out her phone.
Her fingers dance across the screen for a second, then she turns it towards me and shows me a picture of Connor. She presses it with the tip of her finger, and a video starts to play.