We’re barely at the end of the street when my phone rings. Finally, it’s Adam returning my calls. I find that, instead of being relieved to hear from him, my annoyance only heightens. None of this would have happened, I wouldn’t be feeling like this, had I been at home, breathing through a dust mask and swimming about in floor varnish. And I certainly wouldn’t be tearing back down West Street, plucking at my blouse to try and fan myself while entertaining an epiphany about just how shallow I truly am.
‘Where are you?’ Adam asks before I’ve had a chance to say hello.
‘Where am I?’ I hiss into the phone as I round the corner. ‘Where are you? We’re supposed to be doing the floors today. You promised me, Adam, and you’ve David Copperfield-ed into the ether.’
‘We are doing the floors!’ he cries. ‘You were still asleep, so I left you a note. Even I know better than to wake you.’
‘Yes, but you didn’t tell me where you were going, did you?’
‘I went down to B&Q with Dad. We’re back here now, you slacker.’ He laughs. ‘Also, if I’m David Copperfield, does that mean—?’
‘For the love of God, give me twenty minutes.’
When I do arrive home, I find Dad’s old work van, which is more mystery than machine, sprawled out in the car park. In a previous life, it moonlighted as a campervan, back when he could still convince Adam and I that a weekend in the Peak District would be more fun than we’d know what to do with. The rear hatch is wide open, and the side door has been slid right back, a proper automotive centrefold.
From inside the gallery, I can hear metallic screeching, heaving and the type of laughter that tells me something more serious is happening than running a polishing mop over the floor or sanding down splinters. We kick off our shoes by the back door and step inside, Lainey close behind, talking about all the renovations Frank finished in the last week. It sounds so much easier than all of this.
The smell of sawn wood fills my nose. It’s strangely calming in a way I hadn’t expected. As I reach for the stairwell bannister, I spy a toolbag by the entrance to the back room, that small space behind the main gallery area. It’s big enough for half a dozen pieces at a pinch, but the intimate vibe is part of its charm.
I’ve put a lot of thought into that room, and I want to offer it to Fiona as a permanent exhibition space. While one of her favourite things to do is to head to markets and sell her work, I’d love to see her recognised as she should be, and certainly only if she agrees to it. After today, I feel like that needs to be a caveat for everything: only if they agree.
The one drawback to the room was always the carpet. Red and stained, it looks like it’s been rolled up and used to dispose of bodies. But, as the room comes into proper view, the first thing I notice is that that carpet is now curled and sagged over itself in the corner like a discarded stuffed animal. Tack strips that once kept it attached to the floor are broken at angles like metal in a wreck. In the middle of it all, Adam and Dad are hunched over with crowbars in hands.
‘Please, please tell me I’m imagining this,’ I say with a groan. The calm feeling I had only seconds ago vaporises like deodorant on a summer day.
They both stand slowly, hands clutching at hips and eyes crinkling in identical spots. The father and his mini-me. Dad looks at Adam, Adam looks at Dad, and they both turn to me.
‘It had to go,’ Dad says, gesturing to the space by his feet. ‘Anonymous decision.’
Adam clears his throat. ‘Unanimous.’
‘Anyway, it matches the rest of the place now.’ Dad skirts past me. ‘Have you inspected this morning’s handiwork? You’re going to love it.’
‘No.’ I swallow down my argument. ‘I haven’t.’
‘Right, well, this is what we did while you were being ladies who lunch.’ Adam follows at the rear. ‘Hello, Lainey.’
She smiles coquettishly. ‘Hi, Adam.’
Here’s one thing you need to know about Lainey and Adam: they’re both ridiculous flirts. She knows it, he knows it, and though they’ve had some raging arguments in the years we’ve all been friends, they skirt around and play with each other like it’s a game. It’s always, always been harmless fun to see who can outdo the other.
Dad steps out the morning’s work. Loose nails have been hammered down, they’ve hired a sander and run it over the floorboards, vacuumed their mess and still had enough time to rip up carpet and start on that room. Guilt isn’t the word for it. While I’ve been out sucking down iced coffee, drooling over pastry, and complaining about men, my two favourites have been here toiling away. They make me all kinds of squishy.
Adam hands Lainey a mop. ‘Here you go, you two can get to work with the varnish.’
‘Oh.’ Her cheeks redden. ‘No, no, I have to go. Frank’s waiting at my parents’.’
‘Not even one room?’ he asks.
‘You don’t want me doing this.’ She bumbles about and hands the mop back to him. ‘I’ll ruin it. I dropped a sample pot of paint all over the kitchen floor this week. Wasn’t sure it’d clean up for a while there. Frank’s still salty about it.’
Adam gives her a gentle, disbelieving look. ‘Come on, Lainey, don’t be so hard on yourself.’
Even with his attempted wheedling, Lainey slips out quickly and sheepishly, and before any of us can persuade her otherwise. That leaves the three of us to finish the job while I have an imagined conversation about fessing up to the landlord that resembles something close to question-time in the Commons.
Dad thrusts the mop, varnish and thick brush at me. ‘It’s all yours.’
‘Hang on! What am I supposed to do?’ I hold the mop out before me. ‘Just back and forth like I’m cleaning a floor? And what about the brush?’
‘Do the edges with the brush, fill in with the mop. Like a colouring book. There’s not much more to it than that,’ he says. ‘Keep a light hand, otherwise you’ll be waiting all week for it to dry.’
‘What’s a light hand in the context of this? ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because here in the north, we have to do these things ourselves,’ Dad says.
I guess that’s settled then; even my father thinks I’m a big city wanker. My shoulders sag as he walks away.
Starting in the far corner of the front room, I brush varnish into corners, careful not to coat the fresh gloss white of the skirting boards. Being this close to the ground, it feels like a mammoth task, and I slip, trip, and slide more than once. And, when I knock the varnish over and swear loudly, Dad comes out to find me on my hands and knees, in the middle of a salt circle of varnish on the verge of tears.
‘No need to cry over it,’ he says quietly as he helps me up. ‘We’ll just smooth it out. If it takes a while to dry, at least you aren’t opening tomorrow.’
I’m a mess. My palms and fingernails are crusting over with varnish and I’m sure I’ve managed to get some in my hair. I stand on the spot as I watch him move about the room like a natural. It’s in this moment I realise I feel completely inadequate about this whole adult who owns a business, business. More front than Liberty, as Mum would say. All style, no substance.