Page 79 of Read My Lips

“Sounds good.” I nearly knocked myself out on three lampposts in a row trying not to break eye contact.

“Executive decision,” Simon announced once he’d stopped laughing at me. “No more talking ’til we get there. For safety purposes.”

He led us on a criss-cross path, through residential streets I’d never be able to mentally map, and at the end of a twee, cobbled cut-through, a kind of square opened out between old industrial buildings. This felt private – part of his real life, not the curated version he brought to work.

A dozen or so bric-a-brac covered trestle tables crowded out of the double-height doors of a brightly painted warehouse, hemmed with clothing racks. Around the walled yard, handwritten arrows directed people inside for vinyl and more vintage clothes. The table-tops bulged with magpie hoards of knick knacks in silver and glass. Delicate multi-coloured teacups in precarious stacks jostled against stout pottery bowls. Rolled leather belts hedgehogged up next to heaps of tangled strings of glass beads, overflowing from boxes.

I whistled low, taking in all the bits and bobs I’d never found a place for in my life.

Racks and racks of clothing stretched into the building – all outrageous brightly coloured things from another era. Not a graphic tee in sight. I wouldn’t know what to do with any of it, but Simon steered us gleefully closer.

“After something special?” I asked, breaking silence.

“Always.” He turned, pacing back a step to maintain eye contact. “But I never know until I find it.”

“We’re going to be here a while then?”

His grin furled out to meet my badly hidden awkwardness. “Good things are always worth the hunt.”

How had I known he was going to say that?

Hangers clacked together as he moved along the first row of clothing and then he was scanning the cluttered table tops with intent. I followed, hanging back, not sure what else to do. He was in his element here. Joining in should have been easy.

Then he was beckoning me over, rummaging through a box of watches with a new burst of enthusiasm.

I peered close, expecting some kind of treasure, but he pulled out a plain, beaten up, grimy thing that belonged in the bin. Half the strap had sheared off. Nothing to fuss over. I didn’t get the appeal of sifting through other people’s junk.

“Think they forgot to chuck that one out.”

Simon sighed, smoothing his thumb over the chipped glass face.

“It’s not about finding the brightest thing going, Ben. Sometimes”—he caught my eye, locking in as he weighed the thing in the hollow of his palm—“you need to hold something for a while to work out whether it’s right for you or not. Whether you really want to take it home.”

My mouth went dry. “That right?”

“Absolutely.”

My pulse thundered at his stretched out pause. Stupid, wilful optimism painted layers of meaning in where there were none. What was I doing to myself?

He held out the battered watch for me to take.

“I got Great Uncle Morris’ watch in that suitcase I told you about. Don’t know what brand it was – nothing fancy, don’t get ideas. But there was a certain feel to his. I loved the way the leather strap had worn so the colour faded out where he fastened it every day. The shape of the numbers. The soft scratches in the metal because he never took it off even when he was working. It settled into your hand with just the right weight.”

God I liked the way he talked about things. Like every mark and dent and imperfection had value. He’d stood in the shower that morning and held me in his palm there too.

Simon’s skin had warmed the small metal case. It radiated his heat back into my hand as I took it, thrumming with the life every touch had left on it, as grounding as a sun-warmed pebble.

“Oh.”

“Authenticity’s powerful, isn’t it?” Simon beamed. “Humans are remarkable. We always know when the outside doesn’t match what’s inside.”

My gut twisted uncomfortably.

“You still talking about the watch?”

“Maybe.” Dusting off a deep green pork-pie hat with an orange feather in the band, Simon plonked it on my head. “Smile for the camera.”

He angled his phone in front of our faces and the shutter sound echoed off the tarmac and the cobbled sets of the yard. At least his unquenchable brightness took the attention away from me looking like a cornered rabbit.