I cover my mouth and laugh. She’s right, there’s a teensy bit of smug satisfaction that comes from knowing he’s stuffed up so badly. Who am I kidding? The schadenfreude is a strawberry milkshake, and I’m so very thirsty.
‘As for wedding prep,’ Lainey says, wiping the tears of laughter away, ‘the groomsman and bridesmaid are sorted, our parents are still completely insane, and I’m just about finished with everything except for …’
I watch on as she pulls some coloured card from her handbag, pressed carefully inside a hardback book. It’s the same shades of blue and white we used for her place cards. She passes it carefully across the table to me. I know what it means before she even opens her mouth and I hope I don’t break out into a cold sweat.
‘Menu cards,’ she says with a smile.
‘Oh,’ I blurt.
‘Now, I know it took ages to do the place cards, but do you think you’d have time to make these?’ she asks, producing a printed mock-up of a menu. ‘I know you’re busy right now, and I know it wasn’t something we originally planned, so I completely understand if you say no.’
‘No, absolutely. I have time.’ Honestly, I have no idea if I do have the time, but I promised I’d help, so I’ll make the time. Anyway, what kind of friend would I be if I sent her down the aisle with mismatched stationery? ‘How many do you need?’
‘There’s ten tables, so maybe thirty?’ She wrinkles her nose, a sure sign she knows this isn’t going to be the quickest job on earth. ‘All written out in the same style as the invites and place cards.’
Thirty copies of the same wording, each of them needing to be perfectly presented. It suddenly makes painting walls seem like a walk in the park. I suppose at least it will be a nice change from holding a roller above my head.
‘Do you have thirty sheets?’ I ask. ‘Maybe a few extras if I screw some up? Forty is a good number.’
‘That’s the thing.’ She points. ‘I tried the paper shop on my way home last night, but they were out. I thought maybe your dad would have some in stock.’
‘Okay, sure.’ I sit back. ‘Actually, you know what? Let’s go to there now.’
We settle the bill and skirt back through the city centre, along West Street and towards Patterson Arts. It’s the well-worn route borne of school afternoons and carefree weekends, setting up in the office at the rear of the shop while waiting for Dad to close for the day.
A tram rattles along as we scuttle past shoppers and across the road, nattering about a student bookstore and games parlour that are now things of the past. As I dodge a lorry and step up onto the kerb, I stop still at the sight of someone approaching from the opposite direction.
‘Christopher.’ I still, my hand on the door, sure that I can feel my pulse throb in my fingertips.
‘Katharine.’
Of all the things I needed today, this wasn’t it. I have to introduce them. I can’t not do it; Lainey already knows who he is from our afternoon of internet sleuthing and, well, if I don’t, he’s going to throw my failure back at me under some pretext of my own rudeness.
‘Lainey, this is Christopher.’ I flourish a hand towards him. ‘Christopher, my best friend Lainey.’
Lainey holds her hand out, peering up at him with something akin to reverence. Here he is, I want to say, that guy we were virtually stalking, which sounds creepy, but it’s the only way she knows him so far. As he was when he met me, he’s standoffish and quiet, a sharp nod and a hello just about all he can muster for her. He doesn’t take her proffered hand, and I watch as it falls back to her side and she hitches her handbag up onto her shoulder.
‘Are you coming in?’ I ask, leaning into the shop door.
‘Thank you. Just stocking up on supplies for class tomorrow.’ He steps past me after Lainey, who zings off towards the paper section. ‘You?’
‘Looking for cardstock.’ I tuck dark wisps of hair behind my ear and turn my attention back to my friend. ‘I volunteered to make wedding stationery.’
‘Right, well,’ his voice drifts off as he moves away. ‘Have fun with that.’
I’m unsure of what that’s supposed to mean, but I don’t have room in my head to decipher him right now. Picking up another gallery’s flier from the front counter, I turn and head towards the back of the store.
As I bound through the aisles, my world suddenly smells of mothballs, dusty canvas, and the summer of 1993, the first time I worked school holidays in the shop. A framed newspaper article by the door tells everyone who passes that my parents opened the shop in the Eighties, both smiling out from the photo.
Whenever I’ve visited Sheffield, it’s been to home and back again. There’s a gnawing realisation that, now that I’m back and settled in, now that my life has changed so drastically, I regret ever leaving. There’s a warmth and familiarity to the shop that can only come from happy memories.
Today, Dad’s not working. There’s someone I’ve never met behind the counter. With her red hair up in Princess Leia buns and a pencil behind her ear, she’s got a sketch pad and a stick of charcoal for company. All I remember from behind that counter was the thrill of serving my first customer, thinking I’d changed the world somehow, while Mum sat in the office out back. She was always busy working on accounts while Dad ran about with a hot pink feather duster and outlandish apron. I let that memory push me further into the store.
The shelves are overflowing with every conceivable product an artist might need, from pencils, paints, charcoals, canvas, thinners and brushes, darkroom chemicals, and everything in between. Oh – the darkroom! I take a quick photo to remind me to make a shopping list for developers, lights and supplies.
‘You okay?’ Lainey peers at me from the end of the aisle, concern etched on her features.
‘Me?’ I straighten my back and wave her towards the cardstock. ‘Yeah, I’m good.’
She leans in conspiratorially, checking for life behind me. ‘He looks like he has a stick up his bum.’
‘Stop,’ I whisper. ‘Don’t be horrible.’
After every run-in I’ve had with him, I don’t know why I’m defending him other than I’d hate to hear someone talk about me like that. Lainey gives me a questioning look as she returns to her mission. I turn my gaze across the store and there he is, chin tucked into his chest, brow furrowed as he scratches at the back of his head. Whatever he’s looking at has his utmost attention. I hope he’s so focused that he didn’t hear her.
We keep digging through the pigeonholes of colour, comparing and contrasting exactly the right shade of blue – and would it matter considerably if there was the tiniest bit of difference between the menu cards and the invites? The understandable answer is yes, absolutely.
‘Bingo.’ I pull a handful of eggshell blue card from the back of the pile. ‘This looks like it.’
‘That’s exactly it.’ Lainey grapples for it like an overexcited child and makes a noise like a startled bird.
She counts through the pile and, the further she gets, the more her face falls. I continue searching to see whether, if by some miracle, there’s not more sheets hiding behind one of the other colours. There aren’t, and there’s not enough in her pile for what we need. She says nothing, but I can see her nostrils flare as her breathing quickens.