Chapter 1: The Rusty Lantern: Drinks and Desperation
The scent of popcorn butter and ammonia followed Stan out of the cinema lobby and into the bland university hallway. Chloe fell into step beside him, her Converse squeaking on the linoleum. “So, in summation,” she said, tucking a strand of long black hair behind her ear, “the metaphor of the bucket was undercooked, but the scene in the taxi was genuinely transcendent.”
“Transcendent,” Stan repeated, rolling the word around like a hard candy. He liked how it felt.“Yeah. That’s what I’m after.”
He’d been working the retail shift with her at ‘Reel Dreams’ for eight months now. Thursdays were their day: stocking overpriced director biographies, arguing over film stock versus digital, and waving goodbye to the last customer before hitting the campus pub. It was a rhythm as comfortable as his favourite sweater.
Paige was waiting for them at their usual corner table at The Rusty Lantern, a pool of golden light from the brass fixture above her making her honey-blonde waves look like they’d been spun from the light itself. She smiled, and the entire pub seemed to tilt slightly in her direction. Stan felt the familiar, pleasant lurch in his stomach.
“You’re late,” Paige said, her voice a smooth alto. “I already defended our table from two rugby lads and a very determined pigeon.”
“Blame Stan. He was philosophizing with Mr. Gurniak about Kurosawa’s use of weather,” Chloe said, sliding into the worn booth. She kicked Stan’s shin under the table. “Go on. Get her a cider. You know you want to.”
He did want to. He fumbled with his wallet, mumbled something about it being his turn, and made his way to the bar. When he returned, setting the cold glass in front of Paige, her fingers brushed his. “Thanks, Stan.” Her blue eyes held his for a second too long, and his brain short-circuited. All he could manage was a nod.
Chloe watched this exchange over the rim of her own pint, her expression unreadable. She took a long sip.
“So,” Paige said, tracing a pattern in the condensation on her glass. “What’s the next big project, auteur? Another short about a lonely lamppost?”
Stan laughed, the tension breaking.“No. No lampposts. This one’s… bigger.” He leaned in, the familiar fervour lighting him up from inside. “It’s about a guy. A young guy, an artist. He’s got this decent life, you know? Good friends, a girl who clearly adores him, real talent. But he becomes obsessed with this… this idea of a woman. She’s like a phantom, perfect and unattainable. He sees her in glimpses, constructs a whole fantasy around her. And in chasing that fantasy, he starts to neglect the real, good things he has.He pushes them away. Until, by the time he realizes what he’s doing, it’s too late. He’s lost everything solid, and he’s left holding just the ghost.”
The table was quiet for a moment. The jukebox in the corner switched to a mournful country song.
“That’s brutally sad,” Chloe said quietly. She wasn’t looking at him anymore; she was studying a chip in the wooden table.
“It’s honest,” Stan said, his voice earnest. “It’s about the blindness of wanting.”
Paige tilted her head, her gaze thoughtful. “And the fantasy woman… what does she represent?”
“I don’t know yet.Success? Validation? The life you think you’re supposed to have?” He ran a hand through his hair. “I need to shoot it. I want to enter the Midlands festival.”
“You’ll need locations,” Chloe said, her practical, artistic mind already switching gears. “A proper flat for the artist. Somewhere liminal for the fantasy sequences.”
“And an actress who can be both tangible and spectral,” Paige added. A slow smile played on her lips. “It’s a great concept, Stan. Really.”
“Will you help?” The question burst out of him, directed at both of them. “Chlo, you’re a better production designer than anyone in our year. And Paige… you’d be perfect. To play the fantasy. You have that… quality.”
Paige’s smile widened, pleased. “I’d love to.”
Chloe was silent for another second, then let out a soft breath. “Of course I’ll help. You’d screw up the colour palette without me.”
The pub door banged open, letting in a blast of cold evening air and Josh. He looked like he’d slept in his leather jacket, his dark hair tousled, his jaw shadowed with stubble. His eyes scanned the room, landing on their table with predatory focus. He sauntered over, the scent of tobacco and last night’s beer wafting ahead of him.
“The brains trust,” he announced, pulling over a chair from a neighbouring table and straddling it backwards. He nodded at Stan. “Mate.” His eyes travelled to Paige, lingering on the open collar of her shirt, then to Chloe, tracing the line of her neck.“Ladies. You both look incredibly… tutor-able.”
Paige’s smile cooled into something polite and distant. Chloe just frowned, looking down into her drink.
“We’re talking about Stan’s film,” Paige said, her tone clearly marking the topic as closed to his usual brand of commentary.
“Another depressing art project?” Josh chuckled, grabbing a stray chip from Stan’s plate. “What’s this one about? The profound sadness of… I dunno, postboxes?”
Stan ignored the jab, too excited to be derailed. He outlined the concept again, his hands sketching shapes in the air. Josh listened, chewing slowly, his eyes flicking between the girls.
“So you need locations,” Josh interrupted as Stan finished. “I know places. My cousin manages those new builds by the river.All glass and emptiness. Perfect for your ‘ghost,’ Paige.” He winked at her. “And I know a warehouse space. Grimy, real. For the artist’s ‘real life.’” He made air quotes, his gaze sliding to Chloe. “Bet you could make that look properly tragic, Chloe.”
Chloe met his look with a flat stare. “I don’t do tragic. I do authentic.”
“Same difference,” Josh shrugged, unabashed. “Look, I’m between things right now. Let me be your location scout. I’ll get you access. Consider it my artistic contribution.” He flashed a grin, all practiced charm. “Besides, someone needs to bring a bit of edge to this student film sob-fest.”
Stan hesitated. He saw the way Chloe was stiffening, the slight tightening around Paige’s eyes. But the offer was concrete. The glass flats by the river would be perfect. His mind was already framing shots, tracking movements. The momentum of the project, the chance to actually make it, swept his doubts aside.
“That… could actually be amazing, Josh. Seriously.”
“Sorted.” Josh clapped his hands together, a sharp, final sound. “First recon mission tomorrow. I’ll text you.” He stood up, his chair scraping loudly. He leaned over the table, putting a hand near Paige’s arm, another near Chloe’s.“Ladies. Can’t wait to see what you bring to this. I have a feeling it’ll be… illuminating.”
He straightened and wandered towards the bar, leaving a silence behind him that felt different from the one before.
“You sure about him?” Chloe asked, her voice low.
“He knows places we’d never get into,” Stan said, his mind already kilometers away, on lens choices and shot lists. “This is what the film needs. It’s going to be real.”
Paige sipped her cider, watching Josh’s back at the bar. She didn’t look upset. She looked curious, as if presented with a complex equation. “It’ll certainly be something,” she murmured.
The following week was a blur of pre-production. Stan’s world telescoped down to mood boards, call sheets, and equipment lists. He met with Chloe to discuss colour palettes—muted, desaturated tones for the ‘real’ world, a cooler, sharper clarity for the fantasy sequences. He met with Paige for “character discussions” in library nooks, which mostly consisted of her asking probing questions that left him flustered and inspired.
He texted Josh addresses and times.
Josh’s replies were always immediate, full of confident promises. Sorted the warehouse. Cousin’s on board for the flat. Met a guy who can get us a fog machine.
Stan, buried in permits and storyboards, felt a surge of gratitude. Josh was delivering. The film was coming together. He saw Paige, luminous in his mind’s eye, stepping through artificial mist. He saw Chloe, creating a world for his character to lose. He saw the festival screen, his name in the credits.
He was so focused on the phantom on the screen, he failed to notice the very real currents shifting between the people helping him build it. He didn’t see Josh’s texts to Paige, a mix of logistical talk and casually provocative questions. He missed the way Josh would find Chloe alone in the library, offering a cynical joke that sometimes, despite herself, made her smirk. He was blind to the quiet concern that settled deeper into Chloe’s eyes, or the speculative, challenging light that now sometimes flashed in Paige’s when Josh entered a room.
The film was all that mattered. Everything else was just background, just noise. He was chasing the perfect shot, and for the first time, it felt within reach.