Metroland

The phone's ringing.

What time is it?

5:
30.

It's a wrong number.

Might be something important.

Oh, it's woken Amy.

Oh, I'll get up.

There, there, there.

Hello.

It's about bloody time.

Who is this?

Who do you

think it is?

Toni?

How are you,

you old bastard?

Bloody hell!

Do you know

what bloody time it is?

What? Sh*t, no.

No, I don't, mate. No. Sorry.

It's not even 6:
00.

Sh*t, I should be in bed.

I was.

Where are you?

Buggered if I know, mate.

Are... Are you in England?

Yeah, it's definitely England.

Yeah, yeah.

Without a doubt. Yeah.

This is a surprise.

What's it been...

like five years?

Yeah, yeah. Something like that.

Listen, listen.

So, what, what?

We going to meet?

Yeah.

Yeah? What, tomorrow? Lunch?

Lunch. Yeah. Yeah, sure.

Right, right. Well,

I'll come over at 1:00.

Okay.

Yeah? All right.

Ciao fornow.

Can only be bad news

at this time of the morning.

That was Toni.

He's not gone

vegetarian, has he?

No. Well, he didn't say.

I doubt it.

Knowing Toni,

he could have aligned himself

with some vegan

terrorist faction-

The Popular Front for the

Liberation of the Frozen Pea.

Look, I'm sorry.

I should have asked you first.

For God's sakes,

stop apologizing.

It's only

Sunday lunch.

He's not

moving in... is he?

He really likes you,

you know.

Oh, gosh.

I feel somehow validated.

It's just...

What?

I never understood

why he had to be so angry

all the time.

He was always angry.

We both were.

We were part

of the Anger Generation.

You angry? Come on.

Petulant, perhaps.

Anyway, he's a writer.

He believes

in telling the truth.

He's not a very good writer.

He's not successful.

That doesn't mean he's not good.

Doesn't make him

Proust, either.

You always defend him.

Of course I do.

He's my best friend.

Stop now.

Ne bouge pas.

Comme a.

Don't look at me like that.

Oh... Ohh! Oh, Chris!

Chris?

Oh, Chris! Ohh!

I knowyou want

to sleep with other women,

Chris, and I understand.

There's nothing

to feel guilty about.

In fact,

I want you to have affairs.

It'll be good for our marriage.

And, of course,

I'll still cookyour dinner

and do your washing

and ironing.

Mmm.

I'm quite tired, Chris.

It's the weekend, love.

Sunday tomorrow.

I'm not really in the mood.

We never make love anymore.

We make love constantly.

I can't even remember

the last time.

Yesterday morning.

Yeah? We used to do it

three times a day.

Well, that was when we

were new to each other.

Anyway, it only happened once

and you complained

about being sore

for a week afterwards.

Sore, but very smug.

Lloydy!

Come here!

You're ruined!

Now, Africa, Chris.

You must get yourself

to Africa.

Black women... Ah!

I was in Italy.

I went to Spain.

Spun me around, really.

Ended up in New York.

I kept meaning

to send a postcard.

You know how it is.

Why did you come back?

Oh, it's difficult

to talk about.

Not bad news, I hope.

No, it's okay. It's...

What's up, mate?

This is really hard.

Do you want me to leave you two

alone for a minute?

No.

No, you stay.

It concerns both ofyou.

You can hide from the truth

for only so long

before it all gets too much.

Time I faced up

to the way things really are.

You see, Chris...

I had to come back because...

I love you.

I always have.

You're the only person

in the world for me.

I'm sorry, Marion.

I know this must come

as a bit of a blow

but Chris and I were meant

to be together.

Very funny.

Your faces!

What's her name?

Her name's Kally,

as in "California. "

It's where her folks were born,

only she's spelt with a "K."

Oh, you should

have brought her along.

Naw. We believe

in having separate friends.

I met her in a creative

writing course in Pasadena.

Yeah? What the hell

were you doing there?

I was teaching it.

I didn't know you went in

for that

sort of thing.

Which?

Teaching or seducing students?

Huh? No. No, I don't

if I can avoid it, you know

but you got to subsidize

the old poetry somehow.

I mean, come on.

If poetry's going

to mean anything

you got to take it

directly to the people.

That is pure paranoia.

That is pure paranoia.

Anybody who wants to

can read poetry.

Yeah, but they don't

want to, do they?

'Cause they're told what?

It's... It's

a minority taste.

Late night slot.

You know,

pigeon fancying...

goat f***ing...

whatever it is

they f***ing get up to.

I see... I see loads

of poetry in the shops.

But you don't see poetry

in the shops, Marion.

You see

golfing limericks

and jolly

historical ballads.

Dead, unthreatening stuff.

There's nothing vital!

There's nothing...

Hey! Hey! Hey!

Nothing about

what's happening now.

Sorry, baby.

What you actually mean is

nobody stocks your books.

Exactly.

Bastards.

Chris?

Hmm?

What do you get up

to on your walks?

Nothing.

Think a bit.

What about?

I don't know,

serious sh*t.

The past, future

meaning-of-life stuff,

you know.

Um, I make a few...

mental lists.

What kind oflists?

You know,

some people count sheep.

Uh... I make lists.

Chris Lloyd...

the story so far.

Healthy.

Not poor,

not... deformed

not... starving.

Not asleep.

Married:
Yes.

Children:
One.

Job:
One. House: Yes.

Mortgage:
Yes. Car...

Arguably.

So on, so on.

Till the panic subsides.

What have you got

to panic about?

Nothing.

That's what worries me.

Love you.

Love you back.

And your friend.

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