‘Sorry,’ she offers a sheepish apology as she reappears, cheeks flushed. She busies herself with rinsing dishes before setting her sights on a pile of wedding paraphernalia on the dining table.
‘Don’t apologise,’ I scoff. ‘Anyone offended by that needs their head examined.’
‘How was yesterday?’ she asked. ‘Someone snapped you up yet?’
‘Actually, I ended up in Sheff yesterday. Dad harangued Adam about us visiting, so we drove up for lunch. Got home about ten this morning.’
‘That sounds lovely.’ She smiles serenely. If only she knew.
‘Yeah, it was good to get away,’ I say. ‘It made me realise I need to go home more often, actually.’
‘You and me both.’ She looks momentarily reflective. ‘Are you still okay to work on place cards today? You’ve done a bit of travel, so if you’re too tired, we can hold off.’
‘Absolutely,’ I enthuse. ‘Let’s get these done. I’ve been looking forward to this.’
As we unfurl an A3 piece of paper across the table, I push placemats and a vase aside to make room for it. It’s a haphazardly drawn blueprint of their reception venue, including tables, a dance floor and stage where the band will play. Scrawled across each table are the names of everyone lucky enough to be seated together.
‘The singles, the married four hundred years, random relatives we have to invite because parents will be parents, work colleagues, and friends we’ve had forever,’ Lainey explains as she piles a bunch of eggshell blue and white cards on the table. ‘Not all mutually exclusive, funnily enough.’
‘Do you have a list of names?’ I look at the sheet doubtfully. ‘I wouldn’t want to, you know, spill ink and destroy this.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ Her face lights up and she digs through her things again.
Sitting together at the table while I cut and fold place cards, even writing on them with slow and deliberate strokes of a fountain pen, is a relaxing way to spend the day. With the radio playing in the background and a bowl of peanut M&Ms between us, we spend our time chatting about everything but my last two days.
It’s nice to push it all aside and feel normal again, as if I’m not constantly thinking about the rest of my life hurling itself into the sun. When we stop for a break, I flop onto the sofa as if I’d just got off night shift.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ Lainey ventures, crossing her ankles on the edge of the coffee table.
Already sprawled out on the corner chaise, I roll my head to look at her, pop another chocolate in my mouth and wait for her to continue.
‘Are you okay? I mean, for real okay.’ She winces like she’s waiting for me to blow up. When I remain silent, she continues, ‘It’s just that you haven’t really talked about what’s been going on. You’ve talked about the weather, your flat and a piece of art you want to buy. We’ve compared shopping bargains and the price of milk, but there’s an elephant in the room and I don’t think his name is Dumbo.’
‘But that’s okay.’ I draw my knees up to my chest. ‘Today’s all about your wedding, your cake tasting and your duck breasts.’
‘Yes, but a lot has happened in your life the last few days, I’m just worried you might not be dealing with it properly,’ she says. ‘You’re normally far chattier than this. You’ve not even mentioned John.’
‘It’s certainly been busy.’ I turn to look at the television. ‘And John still has a lovely penis.’
‘You can talk to me, you know,’ she says. ‘It won’t go anywhere.’
For a moment, I contemplate exactly what it is I want to tell her, who I want to tell her about but, in place of words, laughter bursts forth at her solemn declaration. I know she means well, there’s not a moment she doesn’t, but she does look a little like she’s about to tell me I’m terminal.
‘What?’ she asks, confused.
‘So, ah, yesterday was interesting.’
‘Tell me, tell me.’ She bounces in her seat. ‘Was it John?’
‘Sort of.’ I narrow my eyes. ‘But not entirely.’
I start from the top and we roar with laughter at the idea of Adam finding John, naked as the day he was born, asking about golden ratios. We dissect the brotherly interrogation on the drive up, and both wonder if there’s not a little bit of jealousy at play. Not in some weird incestuous way, but in a way that now says Adam has to fight for my attention, and with a work colleague no less. After all, I tend to drop everything whenever he asks for my help. Conceivably, he thinks that won’t happen now.
Lainey makes all the right noises, and nods along as I speak. I follow her back to the kitchen where I watch her put together a grazing plate full of cold cuts, cheeses, and cornichons which absolutely don’t warrant a joke or ten about their size. I quickly brush over Kit and how Dad introduced us. When I get to the part about opening my own gallery, she frowns and her jaw drops. Not in a bad way, more in an I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! way.
‘I’m just not sure,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I love the idea of working in London, but I’m such a small fish in a very big bowl. Sheffield would give me more of a chance to be a bigger fish, wouldn’t it?’
‘Your own gallery? That is out of this world.’ She holds a finger up. ‘Why are you not there right now hanging pieces on the wall? Churning up that fishbowl? The Katie Patterson Gallery, new and exclusive and next level.’
‘Firstly, because it’s Sunday.’ I stuff an olive in my mouth. ‘Also, because it’s hugely risky. And because Katie makes it sound like I’m five years old.’
‘Isn’t everything risky?’ She spins her finger like a roulette wheel and invites me back over to the sofa. ‘Every single thing we do is a risk. It just depends on how much we want it. First dates, getting engaged, marriage, family, new jobs. Like it or not, this is our life now.’
‘Do you think it’s a good idea though?’ I ask, pressing my phone into her hand. ‘I mean, just look at this place. It’s stunning, classic architecture, built when things were made to last, and there’s space to live upstairs. I mean, the inside of it looks like a carnival ride, but at least I won’t have to resort to my childhood bedroom.’
‘Oh, Katharine.’ She gasps as she scrolls through the photos of the old building. ‘You know I’ll miss you dearly, but you need to do this. This is exactly what we were talking about the other day. You said yourself you wanted your own gallery. And you always had potential to do so much better than Webster. And I’m sure, if you thought about it, you’d agree with that, too. Also, I know a good accountant who could set you up.’
‘I’m going back up to look at it tomorrow,’ I say, feeling her excitement settle in a flutter. ‘And Frank’s on speed dial, you know that.’
‘He’ll be so thrilled when I tell him.’ She claps her hands together.
‘Wherever I land, I’m still helping you with this wedding stuff though.’ I point to the mess spread about the table. It looks like a primary school art project, scissors and glue, pens and pencils tumbled over.