Adam steps down from the ladder while I pull the door closed. We’re in almost total darkness, just a few sneaky shards of light slipping through the top of the window and underneath the door. We add another layer of board to the window, overlapping what’s already there and I push a draught stopper against the door. There, now we’re in almost midnight darkness. It’s as perfect as I’m going to get it without cutting off ventilation completely.
While Adam cleans, I set the room up as best I can with the supplies I picked up at Dad’s shop yesterday. I set out designated wet and dry areas, mark spots for chemical baths and mixing jugs, and set aside a corner for retrieving film from cannisters. When he returns, we close the door and switch on the safelight, brothel red and just bright enough that we can see each other.
‘Looks really good, Katie.’ He turns slowly, taking it all in.
‘Not so bad, hey?’ I nudge him. ‘Pretty clever.’
‘You are brilliantly smart and horrendously tenacious. You simply need to trust yourself a bit more.’ He gives my shoulder a squeeze. Before he can get away, I slip my arms around his middle and drag him in for a hug.
‘You know, you’re not the first person to say that recently,’ I say.
‘Whoever said that is obviously a smart person.’
As is his style, Adam tries to duck out with the minimum fuss, making excuses about heading out for dinner with old friends and wanting to check in on emails beforehand. The least I can do is persuade him to join me for afternoon tea. He won’t accept so much as £10 for his help today, which I’ve negotiated down from a higher sum, but he’s always found it impossible to pass up afternoon tea.
I pluck a new roll of film from the bottom of my handbag and stuff it into my camera as we walk out the door. We wander about looking for a bakery we both remember from childhood but settle for a booth in the café at the Millennium Gallery when neither of us can find it.
‘Before you run off today,’ I begin as I slide a tray of tea and scones onto the table.
Adam stops texting furiously and puts his phone in his coat. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you talk to me about you?’ I ask. ‘Your silence is bothering me.’
He frowns. ‘Doesn’t normally.’
‘This is different.’
We play a quick game of rock, paper, scissors to determine who gets the blueberry jam and who gets the bramble. I gratefully take the blueberry.
‘Please talk,’ I say.
‘About what?’
My brother hasn’t said much about himself since he arrived this morning with a bagful of groceries. ‘Just in case you need them’, he reasoned. All I know is that he’s taking some personal days from work. Oh, and the throwaway comment about 2 a.m. text messages. I’m beyond grateful for his help, I just don’t want it to be at the expense of him getting his own help if he needs it.
I flash him a sarcastic look. ‘Sophie.’
‘Do you want me to be honest?’ he asks, sucking jam and clotted cream from his finger. ‘Or do you want the easily palatable option?’
‘You know we always do honesty.’
And we’ve done it to the point where sometimes we’ve been a little too honest. I remember one discussion we had when I was living with him and Sophie. It was my first year in London and word had filtered back to Adam that I was both lazy and leaving the house a mess. It was terse and at times his accusations seemed unfairly founded, but things needed to be said either way. I sulked for a few days before everything went back to normal.
‘In that case, I feel like I’ve had the rug pulled out from under me,’ he says. ‘I know I said at the pub the other week that things weren’t looking great, but it still doesn’t prepare you for it. I’m furiously angry, but I’ve got nowhere to expend it. You spend so much time being lulled into a false sense of security by routines and alarm clocks, five-year plans and financial planners, and then it’s just upended when she comes home and says she’s decided over lunch with a girlfriend that it’s over. I mean, how is it fair that they know my marital status before I do?’
I don’t have a wealth of experience when it comes to relationships – at least if I’m talking long-term. The few boyfriends I’ve had lasted between six and twelve months, and my latest experience amounted to nine months of bad decisions and an empty bed, so I can’t really give the ‘If it were me, I would’ speech. What I can do though is listen, and sometimes that’s all that’s needed.
And I suspect I’m right, because he talks all the way through afternoon tea, a walk up The Moor and back home again, where we sit on the back doorstep and natter about life some more. When he eventually leaves, I squeeze him so tight he might pop and wave as he steps up into the first bus that arrives outside the gallery. I work through a few quick emails about the gallery, then I have nothing but a full roll of film and a few hours until sunset to while away the afternoon.
I take the opportunity to wander around and think about nothing other than apertures and focus, framing and angles as I photograph trees and park benches, flowers and crumbling buildings, rogue cats and my beautiful gallery and its intricate details. I stop a few clicks short of the end of the roll; Christopher wants to learn how to develop film, so he can use the final shots when he’s ready.
Except, I’m desperate to try the room myself. Standing by the back door, key in lock, I dial his number. I look up and see a hanging basket that’s been left to turn to dust. A nice little flowing something would add more homeliness to the place. Just as I think my call is going to ring out, he picks up.
‘Kit Dunbar.’ He sounds distracted.
‘Hey, it’s me,’ I say.
‘Hello, you,’ he answers. Something inside me quivers at the familiarity in his voice. ‘How are you? I still haven’t scared you off, have I?’
I lean against the back door and peer out into the empty gravel car park. ‘No. You’re going to have to try harder than that.’
I’m not sure, but I think I hear him mumble something that sounds like, ‘Good.’ Nerves xylophone across my ribs as I take a deep breath.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Right now?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Tonight, it’s jam sandwiches for an early dinner,’ he says. ‘Rock ’n’ roll, I know.’
‘Now, see, I think you’re looking at this entirely the wrong way.’ I close the door behind me. ‘Jam sandwiches are completely underrated.’
‘Does it count that I made the bread?’ he asks.
‘Look at you, Earl of Sandwich.’ I bite down on a knuckle to stop myself from laughing. ‘Also, for future reference, I believe fresh bread is one of life’s delicacies. When it’s home-made, it’s even better.’
‘In that case, I’m hanging up on you so I can eat in peace.’
‘After that?’ I say. ‘Do you have any plans tonight?’
‘Why? I’d ask if you were planning on taking pity and cooking me a meal, but you can’t boil eggs,’ he says. ‘But I must warn you, I don’t do pity well. I’ll hang up if you start rolling down that hill.’
‘Definitely not. You’ll get no such thing from me.’ I pull the refrigerator door open. ‘As for dinner, I can’t offer you anything unless you have a thing for two-minute noodles or a microwave meal of chicken and cashew.’