Page 5 of The Second Chance Supper Club

She went to ask the man behind the till, who looked nothing like gorgeous Andreas by the way; this chap was well into his sixties with greying curly hair, wearing a drab grey overall. She felt rather inept. The last time she’d done any decorating was for Adam’s nursery, when she was still pregnant and had gone into full nesting mode. She’d chosen a gorgeous pale lemon shade, she remembered nostalgically. Since then, Trevor had always insisted they paid for painters and decorators.

‘Well, those are a five-litre size you’ve been looking at. It’s for a kitchen, you say? What kind of size room are we talking, pet?’ The assistant’s Northumbrian lilt was warm. ‘Ah, it’s a cottage, so not too big … there are wall units and cupboards in place, so it’s not all needing done. Oh, and a small dining area at the far end, galley style,’ she floundered. Damn, he was probably wanting a concrete answer, square metres and such like.

He nodded sagely. ‘Aye, I think one five-litre’ll do yea. Yea can always pop back if you need more. We’ve plenty in.’ ‘Thanks, and I’ll need the tools to paint with too … brushes and everything, please.’ She was starting from scratch with all this.

He gathered together a roller, brushes, a plastic tray, some tape for the edges – ‘Save your skirts and coving’ – and some white spirit cleaning fluid. ‘Aye, that’ll do.’

‘Thank you so much.’

Cath paid, and as she was gathering her goods, the shopkeeper gave a warm wink, adding, ‘Good luck, pet.’

‘I think I might need it,’ she admitted with a wry smile, wondering if she’d bitten off more than she could chew. What if she made a right mess of it? But with finances stretched after the split, there was no way she could afford to get decorators in herself.

As soon as she got back, she was going to have to YouTube ‘How to paint walls’ to refresh her memory. It was twenty-two years ago when she’d last used a paintbrush, after all.

Back at the cottage, with YouTube watched – several clips in fact – stepladder up, and one of her older bedsheets on the floor plus a couple of protective towels on the surfaces, she was primed to make a start. She was going to brushstroke the edges first, and then fill in with the roller. Well, that was the plan. She took a deep breath as she tottered up to the top of the ladder, brush to hand along with her filled paint tray, and went in for the first stroke. The colour was bold, all right. A splash of vivid yellow on white. She’d done it now.

Better keep going then. She was glad of the masking tape, as her hand felt unsteady at first, wobbling over the edges. But as she settled into it, with Radio Two on for company, she began to relax into the task. Well, as relaxed as you could be up a ladder with a tray of paint – when there was no one to catch her if she fell.

Stepping down for a break a half hour later, and stretching out her shoulders and knees which were nagging already, she surveyed her work so far. Crikey, the shade looked darker than the square on the front of the tin. She wasn’t sure about it at all. It looked more egg yolk than daffodil. Oh, bugger, had she gone and got the colour wrong in her haste? Would it darken the kitchen rather than lift it?

She made herself a strong coffee, finding sticky golden tints to her hair, and on her jeans. Definitely egg-yolk coloured. But this was no time for doubts, and hey, if worst came to worst, she’d just have to buy another yellow shade – after testing it, naturally – and go again. There wasn’t even anyone to ask their opinion. She could take a photo and see what her sister, Susie, might make of it, she supposed. But you know what it was like with phones, it might look different again in a picture.

After her caffeine hit, and diving in to the second baklava, she decided to soldier on, hitting the paint roller this time. Broad strokes filled the space much more quickly now. She lost herself for the next hour, humming away to the sounds of the Sara Cox show. It felt a little like having a friend in the kitchen with her. Perhaps she could send a picture to Sara and team, see what they thought? She bloody well hoped it’d dry a bit better than it looked now. She wanted primroses and daffodil tones to lift her mood, not runny egg yolks.

A ‘ping’ went off in her pocket. She carefully dismounted the stepladder and pulled out her phone to see a WhatsApp message appear on the screen. Ah, bless, it was Adam.

Hey Mum, how’s it going? Vietnam is amazing.

Oh, Vietnam. Cambodia left behind now, she mused, as she read on.

The people here are great, so friendly. In Ho Chi Min now. Been on a scooter tour of the city.

Oh, jeez, her heart blipped at that – images of manic streets filled with vehicles, perhaps even animals to dodge, and her son free-wheeling on some slip of a Vespa. She hoped to goodness he’d worn a helmet, but seeing as he was texting, it was most likely over by now. At least he had made it back in one piece.

And then a photo pinged in of him in a jungle, his head sticking out of some hole in the ground – he’d been at the tunnels used by the Viet Kong back in the Vietnam War. Incredible place.

His beard had grown longer and was looking a touch curly. He looked like a man, not so much her little boy. But the cheeky sparkle in his green eyes was still there. He looked happy. Cath sighed and gave a relieved smile. He’d be back in the UK in a couple of months. Plenty of time to look for jobs and find his sensible feet. She was glad he was out in the world having adventures and enjoying his travels. There was time enough for being sensible. She’d been that for the past thirty years, and look where that had got her.

Looks amazing, Adam. Enjoy every experience. x Cath responded.

Then the tease of the three dots as he typed, before: Hope you’re settling in well at the new cottage. Love you. x

How was she settling in? She still wasn’t sure of anything, really. Perhaps she should send him a photo of the river, one she’d taken on her walk that morning. The English countryside in all its fresh springtime glory, silvery light reflecting off the water, and a dapple of cloud in a pale-blue sky. It had looked so scenic. And with that realisation came a moment of gratitude. However hard this big change was, her new home was in a most beautiful place.

She sent the photo and finished with a: Love you too. Take care xx, and a sigh.

Back to the not so mellow-yellow painting. Sore back, achy arms from stretching her brush and roller here, there and everywhere. Four hours after starting and it was done. Standing back and looking in from the hallway, she still wasn’t sure about the bloody colour. And dammit, it appeared slightly streaky in places, but hey, she’d given it her best shot. She’d let it dry before fretting too much.

After having demolished Andreas’s gorgeous baklava, and deciding to keep the quiche for supper, she felt ready to crack on with a few admin chores she’d been putting off; she needed to notify the world of her new address for one. She also had a couple of maths tutoring sessions booked for this evening. She’d set up a professional website, and had plenty of contacts in Leeds. There were always GCSE and A Level students from her old school looking for extra tuition. She needed to build up the number of sessions she did, however, perhaps taking on some university students too, as her savings were getting heavily dipped into just now. She was hopeful that word of mouth would work in her favour. Thankfully, it was something she could easily do from home in her cottage, and if it grew as she hoped it might, then it’d keep some much-needed money coming into the coffers. With Trevor’s financial support in their ‘early retirement plans’ down the pan with their marriage, it was all over to her now.

As the light faded, her mood began to change. The evenings seemed awfully long when you lived alone. She sat at the table for two, in her yolk-yellow kitchen, aching all over, with her slice of very nice village-shop quiche. It was let down, however, by its accompaniment of sorry-looking side salad, consisting of a few limp lettuce leaves and some wrinkly cucumber she’d brought with her on her arrival day and had been lurking in the bottom of the fridge. Though the village store was great for treats and the essentials, she really did need to do a supermarket stock-up.

Blimey, it wasn’t only the cupboard shelves that needed taking stock of, she realised, it was her whole life. She felt rootless, shifting uneasily into this new phase, uncertain of herself. Her confidence had taken a real bashing. It wasn’t at all like her to feel like this, and it wasn’t pleasant.

Casting her eye over this new kitchen space, she spotted her much-loved cookbooks perched on the rustic wooden shelf. She used to love cooking, experimenting with new recipes, trying out foreign flavours. Trevor would tuck in to a newly created dish, or old family favourite, with an appreciative ‘Really good, love.’ Adam would dive into some spicy Thai curry, it hardly touching the sides. It was honestly like watching a spaniel eat, and she wondered at times how he actually tasted anything. Then he’d look up from his empty plate with his trademark cheeky grin, saying, ‘Epic, Mum.’ Perhaps, she’d planted the seed for his travelling with her foreign dishes; she liked to think there might have been a little inspiration there.

Funny how back then she’d longed for this kind of freedom. In their family home, stood in the midst of Adam’s debrisstrewn bedroom, with dirty coffee mugs, cheesy aromas of stray socks and teenage testosterone, and a never-ending pile of laundry, she yearned just to have a few minutes’ peace in the melee of motherhood. She’d known Adam would one day spread his wings, but she never imagined steady Trevor would be up and away at the same time, too. Sometimes you had to be careful what you wished for …