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I nod slowly.
‘I might think of sabotaging one of them out there’s camera, for example. But I wouldn’t. Having said that .?.?.’
‘There’s people out there thatmightdo something like that?’
Vince gives a sharp nod – a composer’s bow. ‘When some people are down, they’ll do anything to raise themselves up. Trick in life is finding the ones who wouldn’t.’ He looks back down at the camera. ‘Hard, though, to come by .?.?.’
And that .?.?. is that. He says nothing else, the end of his wise repairman philosophising. Vince fixes the camera, as the hubbub outside grows, and I sit on a dusty, scratched-up desk, covered in wires and pens and papers and a pen-holder shaped like a miniature wheely bin, packaging up things – a monitor, a light-reader – and I think about what Vince said about Owen. Thinks his shit doesn’t stink. I mean, Vince doesn’t particularly like anyone, so he isn’t exactly an impartial view, but Jack said similar. ‘On his throne’ in the truck. Owen never painted that picture. Owen was the one everyone turned to. Owen was the helper, the team couldn’t do without him. But then, Owen always has been a bunch of contrasts. He’s like one of those days in April. Sunshine and showers and storms, mere moments apart. The flowers, the I love yous, the gestures, the sulking, the withdrawing from me, the leaving, the bloody IKEA cabinets. Sunbeams and lightning strikes.
A knock comes from the other side of Vince’s door.
‘Yep?’
The door cracks open.
‘Vince, my man,’ says Jack. ‘Millie.Hanging in the magic cottage?’ Jack stands in the doorway, and he smiles – wide and warm, that crescent dimple. I love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. I like the way the muscles flex in his forearms as he crosses them at his broad chest. Oh, this crush really is acrush, isn’t it?
‘With the repair genius, yes,’ I say, and a tiny, teeny smile tugs the edge of Vince’s thin mouth.
‘Vince, how’s the camera?’
‘Pile of shit.’
‘Good to hear,’ says Jack, his eyes flicking to mine, widening, and it makes me smile. I feel sometimes, like all I do when I’m with Jack is smile and smile and smile, like a big, gooey drunk.
‘Millie, Petra wanted me to pass on that your day off in lieu has been OK’ed for Friday.’
‘Oh. Great. Thank you.’
‘Mine too, actually. Any plans?’
Sometimes I wonder if Jack actually wants to know, or if he’s just being very boss-like and friendly and all about the morale. Wearebecoming friends, though, aren’t we? A friend who I have a little crush on because whowouldn’t. ‘Oh, my lovely friend, shut up, you fancy the absolute arse off him,’ Cate said when I got home from the rugby game. I’d left at the end of the match, Petra gently suggesting they were fine for crew for packing up. ‘I know your I Fancy Him face and this isit.Stone-cold.’
‘I’m going shopping with my friend Cate,’ I tell Jack. ‘We downloaded this app. Helps match you with your skin palette? Which colours suit you .?.?.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Hoping I find my colour and it changes my life. I may return to work head to toe in yellow like a big giant banana. A big squash.’
Jack laughs, that lovely, warm, deep chuckle. ‘I look forward to the results.’ Jack seems to be down with everything I say. Big bananas. Edward Cullen. Rhubarb farms. There’s something .?.?. addictive about it. I often worry about being enough for people; for the world, just how I am. The Failed Chandler. Tossing random things out there, embellishing parts of myself, to see what’s acceptable, what strikes a chord, what doesn’t get chucked back at me and rejected. With Jack, though, it’s like everything I throw out is truly me, and he just takes it. Catches it, doesn’t bat it back to me.
‘And how about you?’
‘My mate Enam’s having a leaving thing in town. His mates at the sailing club? I’ve said I’ll pop by. He basicallylivesat that place.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘So, youdomake plans for some people.’
Jack drops his gaze to his feet, then back up at me, a glint in his eye, like a pebble hitting water. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘See, only a select few make the cut, Millie dot Chandler,’ and when I laugh, I notice that Vince is staring at us like we both just peeled back our skin to reveal gungy, monstrous scales.
Jack clears his throat. ‘See you at the party Saturday, Vin?’
Vince scoffs. ‘As ifIgot an invite,’ he says. ‘Summer-ween. Did you see that’s what they called it?Ween?’
Jack laughs, arms crossing at his chest, and ah – there it is. That lovely dent of muscle, just beneath a rolled-up sleeve. ‘You up for it, Millie?’
‘The HTG party?’
‘Yup. Got a plus-one. Fancy dress. Film is the theme apparently. Creative.’
