Page 28 of The Woman Who Said Yes

I place the shattered antique on Sam’s workbench and peel away its protective towelling layer. ‘Whoa,’ he exclaims. ‘Sure you didn’t do this on purpose?’

I smile grimly. ‘I’ve been tempted, believe me.’

He studies it closely, having not seen Gideon in the flesh – in the scale – before now. Only pictures shared and sniggered over in our group chat. ‘It’s not the prettiest fish I’ve ever seen,’ he remarks, smirking.

‘I know. Wouldn’t you think, if you were going to gift something like this, you’d choose a better-looking species?’

‘Like Nemo?’ he says, in reference to the DVD I’d bought Theo when he was around six. He’d insisted on watching it countless times, tears rolling down his cheeks at the part where Nemo’s mother died.

‘I still feel terrible about that.’

‘Yeah, well – you’ll be getting his therapy bill,’ he teases.

‘Stop it.’

He laughs and wraps an arm around my shoulders, which makes me feel a whole lot better about the breakage and the impending arrival of Dad and Trudy tomorrow. Sam makes us a coffee and gets down to the business of examining the frame. Although I picked out most of the broken glass, jagged shards remain around the edges. He disassembles it carefully, setting the backing, with the fish attached, on the workbench. Then pulling on fine gloves, he slides out the remaining shards. ‘Careful!’ I warn him, as if he is a child let loose with a potato peeler.

Sam chuckles. ‘I’ll try.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, catching myself. ‘I still have my Craft Club hat on. You don’t need me standing over you, warning you not to cut yourself.’

‘You can if you like. I mean, Farrah never does. I could sever an artery and be bleeding out on the floor here, and she’d be ticking me off for not stacking mounts in their proper cubbyholes.’

‘Quite right too,’ I say, happy to be surrounded by the tools of Sam’s trade, despite today’s minor disaster. As Sam takes measurements and makes pencilled notes, I potter around the workshop. It’s like a charmingly muddled gallery with copious artworks stacked against skirting boards and piled up on every available surface. I spot the latest squirrel: standing on its hind legs, front paws clasped together winsomely. ‘I see Dom’s mum’s been in again,’ I remark.

‘That was weird, wasn’t it? Guess he was just trying to be funny.’ He fetches a sheet of glass. Confident that he is capable of cutting it without supervision, I perch on a stool and sip my coffee until the tranquillity is broken by a sharp rap on the shop’s front door.

‘Oh, don’t worry. Just leave it,’ Sam says as I jump up. Another rapping sound comes, and a voice from outside calls out, ‘Hello? Anyone in there?’

‘I’ll just see what they want,’ I say, heading through to the shop to see a woman with a dark brown glossy bob at the door. I unlock it and let her in. ‘Sorry,’ she says quickly. ‘I realise you’re closed. I was just passing and wanted to drop off something for Sam.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind. He’s in the back, come on through…’ As she follows me towards the workshop I call out, ‘Sam, someone’s here to see you!’ I turn to her. ‘Sorry, I don’t know⁠—’

‘I’m Lucy.’

‘I’m Andie.’

Cradling the glassless frame, Sam looks up briefly. ‘Oh, hi?’

I catch Lucy’s bemused smile, as if she’s waiting for a glimmer of recognition. ‘You framed my linocuts? For my exhibition?’

‘Oh yes! Yes, of course.’

‘I was in the area,’ she adds. ‘I’m sorry – I assumed you’d be open. I saw a light on in the back room and I wanted to give you something…’ She lifts a small matt black box from her leather shoulder bag and hands it to him.

‘Oh, erm… thank you!’ Sam blinks at it as if she’s brought him a turnip.

‘Chocolates.’ Lucy flashes a smile and I glimpse the cute gap between her front teeth. Tall and rangy and possibly in her late forties, she’s wearing loose black linen trousers and a little suede jacket over a rust-coloured top. Her lipstick is pillar-box red.

‘That’s so kind of you. But really, you needn’t have…’ Sam flushes as he takes them from her, and Lucy catches my eye and smiles. Radiating easy confidence, she strikes me as the kind of woman who’d never buy a Bratz doll’s handbag by mistake.

A pause settles, which Sam seems to feel no urgent need to fill. ‘So, how was your exhibition?’ I ask her.

‘Oh, fantastic,’ she enthuses. ‘Just a little group show with other artists, but everything looked great. And I made a few sales! That’s why I wanted to drop off a little thank you…’ She fishes out her phone and brings up a selection of photos of people gathered in a room, drinking wine, admiring artwork on the white walls. ‘That was the private view,’ she explains, then shows us close-ups of her intricate prints: furling leaves, plump berries and prickly sprigs. I think of Dom’s cocktail garnishes.

‘They’re beautiful,’ I say truthfully.

‘Thank you! And the frames showed them off perfectly.’ Although Sam is studying her photos dutifully, I’m sensing I’d-like-to-get-on-now-please energy coming off him in powerful waves. Lucy puts away her phone and looks around, as if in no particular hurry to leave.