Just Friends

by Holly McCulloch

  Until now. Today’s email is not a rejection. And it takes about three minutes for the joy to turn to mild panic. The show is in four days and I have no table, no set-up, no nothing. I don’t even think I have enough cards. I am entirely unprepared.

  I would like Peter’s help with everything but instead I ask:

  Could you come help me on the day? Maybe you could keep me company around lunch-time?

  That all?

  That’s all. And maybe you could bring coffee. xx

  If you’re sure that’s all you need I’m happy to oblige, but I’m here if you need more.

  The next few days are filled with doing things I really should have done months ago. I cancel all my plans, including a yoga date with Tilly, and refuse any additional meet-ups, including another rendezvous with Colin.

  Instead, I get insurance for my stand. I come up with a pricing strategy (by which I mean I put actual prices on all of my cards). I beg/borrow (and also steal, in the case of a small succulent – sorry, pub) things to brighten up my display table. I make a sign. I also try to think of funny things for new cards. I fail miserably at this, and decide to recycle some of last year’s bestsellers instead. A perk of being unknown is that they aren’t recycled in many people’s eyes. Every cloud.

  And sooner than I would have liked, Sunday, aka Independent Art Fair Day, rolls around, and I’ve managed to squeeze all my card paraphernalia into the taxi. The driver isn’t happy about how long it has taken to load all my boxes, but finally everything is in and I can shut the door. One issue: I can only shut the door with me on the outside.

  ‘You’re never gonna get it all in with you inside, love.’

  I think for a while, imagining I am playing a game of Tetris instead.

  ‘Hold on, I have an idea.’ I open the front passenger door. ‘Can I …?’ I don’t wait for his OK before I move the seat back. I rearrange the boxes and shut the door. ‘Perfect! That will be fine there.’ I hope. I then grab the box that’s sitting on the back seat and sit down, with the box on my lap. ‘OK! I’m ready.’

  We are leaving about thirty minutes later than I had planned.

  Clinging on to the box as we round corners unnecessarily fast, I’m a ball of apprehension. Despite all my preparations, I still feel woefully unprepared. I don’t remember the brownie stall organization being this stressful. But there wasn’t so much riding on that, whereas I want my cards to succeed. Today I take a step towards that goal. Today feels important. Today I will see people’s reactions to my cards first hand. I can’t help but think that by judging the cards, they’re also judging me.

  If anyone had seen me this morning, they would already be judging me badly, but luckily only I was witness to my panicked last-minute preparations and changes in plan. The annoying thing is, I’d been worried about the logistics for days, particularly the taxi, but had been so paralysed by fear that I couldn’t face it until the morning itself. A terrible idea.

  We arrive at the hall where the fair is taking place.

  The taxi driver grumbles in my vague direction. ‘Where should I pull in?’

  I have no idea. I look out of the window, hoping for inspiration.

  ‘It looks like there’s a pull-in right up there?’ I try to motion with my hand, but the box on my lap is quite precariously balanced.

  He pulls in, hitting the kerb.

  ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’ I try to manoeuvre myself into a better position to be able to reach the door handle. I’m an independent woman, but I feel that it’s in both our interests for him to help me.

  He doesn’t.

  Finally I manage to open the door. ‘Is it OK if I pop in with this one box to find where my table is and then unload?’

  Again, he makes no noise, but I take it as a yes and head inside.

  ‘That little shit.’

  Having found my space, I’m back outside to unload. I’ve been three minutes, max, and yet all of my boxes are piled, abandoned, on the side of the road. Apparently he can help when it suits him. It has also started to rain.

  Someone with frizzy hair half smiles at me. ‘You were in the taxi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nods knowingly. ‘They really don’t like waiting. Next time think about using a courier. It’s a tad more expensive, but they also have to help take the stuff in.’

  ‘Thank you.’ At least I know for next time. Hoping that there is a next time.

  One good thing about the massive rush I put myself in was that I was too stressed to look around during set-up, because if I had, I probably would have packed straight back up and gone home.

  Everyone else’s stands were amazing, whilst mine looked like something you would see at a sad school holiday fair.

  There were sparkle stations and nail art salons, jewellers selling beautiful stacked rings, temporary tattoo parlours, and even a cookie art stall.

  The only stall that I thought was worse than mine was one that sold teeny tiny boats, like the ones in Pocahontas, for £15 a pop. He must be having a laugh. Who would buy those? For £15? They’re half the size of my little finger.

  The fair opened an hour and a half ago, and I am yet to make a sale.

  As I pace slowly in front of my table, I wish I hadn’t asked Peter to come. I feel akin to how I did at speed dating: mortified that Peter is here to witness my downfall but glad to have him here for moral support.

  I still have an hour before he’s due to arrive, and so in that time I set myself a challenge. I will talk to at least five other exhibitors. I can make cards, this I know, but that isn’t enough. What I really need is to get the inside scoop. These people have been selling their crafts for years. How do they do it? How can I do it?

  My first couple of tries aren’t very successful, mainly because when actually faced with a human to talk to, I can’t think of anything to say, so instead I have to style out my half-open mouth with an awkward smile. At this rate, I will definitely fail.

  Looking around whilst continuing my slow pacing and arm-swinging, I spot my next prey. She’s displaying homemade scented candles diagonally opposite me, has a friendly-looking face and is on crutches, so it’s unlikely that she’ll be able to run away from my advances.

  When I finally gather enough courage to head over, I decide to start simply.

  ‘Hello! Hi! Konnichiwa!’ Where did the Japanese come from? ‘How are you? I thought I’d pop over and introduce myself. I’m Bea –’ I reach out to shake her hand, hoping this is something people still do – ‘and that over there –’ I point to my stall – ‘is my stall.’

  She smiles at me, which I think is a good sign. Her face is even more friendly up close.

  ‘Hi, Bea. I’m Francesca. It’s lovely to meet you. I was watching you set up.’ Oh dear. ‘I love your succulent. I keep trying to find one like it but I can never seem to see the purply ones for sale.’ Tell me about it. ‘You’re selling cards, right? I love a good card.’

  ‘Me too! Which is lucky, I guess. It would be hard to sell something you don’t like. Like cats. I could never sell cats.’

  We talk for a while longer, but then more people start to appear, so I meander back over to my stall, trying not to look too eager whenever someone comes near.

  Luckily, when Peter makes his appearance (coffee in hand), there are real-life people talking to me and laughing at some of my cards.

  He waits for them to leave before coming over. ‘How’s it going? It looks like it’s going well.’ He gives me a hug and hands over the java juice.

  ‘Yeah, it’s going good. It was a bit rocky to start with, quite quiet, but I think it’s getting busier. Although I haven’t actually sold any cards yet.’

  ‘Well, it’s still quite early. And even if you don’t sell a single card, you gotta try these things, right?’

  ‘I guess.’ I’m proud of myself for coming. It would have been very easy to cancel, or not even try to come in the first place. Two very Bea moves.


  ‘You must be hungry. By the lack of food stains down your top I would guess that you haven’t eaten—’

  ‘I don’t always spill food down myself.’ Although we both know my track record isn’t great.

  ‘Go get food. I’ll man the fort.’ At this he does some kind of soldier-like salute and I can’t help but laugh. I don’t think he meant it to be funny but I find it endearing.

  I waddle off, swinging by my new friend’s stall, offering to pick something up for her.

  ‘Oh, no – thank you though. I brought sandwiches.’ She points towards what looks like a brick covered in tinfoil. They must be huge sandwiches. ‘I’ve recently quit my job, so I’m trying to save the pennies where I can.’

  Interesting. ‘Oh, so you haven’t been doing this for long?’

  ‘Well, I set up my company a couple of years ago. I worked part-time for a while, but I only went full-time on the candles last month. The regular part-time salary was great, especially in the early years, and I should be fine, but just in case I like to keep the buffer of money I’ve saved for necessities.’

  I start to ask another question, but a group of people approach her stall so I shut up, nod and give a small wave before retreating.

  For lunch I opt for a halloumi wrap. Delicious, comfortingly warm, and a lack of spillage potential.

  I walk slowly back to my stall, eating my wrap whilst I take in the sights around me. I could imagine myself here – there is a real sense of camaraderie. I like it.

  I also note, with a hint of relief, that my cards are as good as the other cards here. I don’t think I’ve embarrassed myself at all.

  I weave my way up and down the stalls, and once again find myself looking at the tiny boats. I don’t go too close but I also can’t look away – he has a customer. He needs to make this sale. If he can sell a finger-sized boat for £15, I can sell a card for £3.50.

  Against all odds and common sense, he does it. I’m so happy I nearly drop my wrap.

  Having watched the successful sale of the boat, I make my way back to my own cards with a little more optimism.

  I took a route that means I’ve walked up behind Peter. He’s talking, really animatedly, to a couple of customers. I can just about hear what he’s saying.

  ‘They’re great – I mean, feel them.’ He picks up a card and passes it round. It will be unsellable after this, but I let it pass. ‘That’s a card that says you really care.’ He reaches for another. ‘This one is my favourite from her current collection.’

  He passes it to one of the women. She chuckles. ‘You’re right. I’d never thought about it before, but this card does actually feel really nice.’

  ‘And they’re all screen-printed by hand using the highest-quality paints.’

  ‘Are they vegan?’

  ‘The paints?’

  She nods.

  He nods back. ‘Oh, yes. And eco-friendly.’

  Of course the paint is vegan (I think), although the eco-friendly thing is probably a stretch. I make a mental note to confirm both tomorrow.

  ‘Great, I’ll take this and also the one with the avocado on it.’

  The man next to her adds another card to the pile. ‘This too.’

  Peter does the maths quickly in his head. I’m not there yet. ‘We’ll call it a clean ten pounds, saving you a whole fifty pence.’

  They wander off, holding hands, and I get closer to Peter.

  ‘You’re a really good salesman. I should leave you here by yourself for the rest of the afternoon. How’s it gone?’

  ‘Great! You have sold –’ he counts them off on his fingers – ‘ten cards. And someone took your details for their cousin’s shop.’

  My grin is genuine. Even if I don’t sell any more cards, this day already feels like a win.

  The afternoon goes more quickly than the morning, and when it’s over Peter helps me pack up, an activity that everyone else seems to do extremely quickly, and yet it seems to be taking Peter and me a lot longer by comparison. Maybe because he keeps doing impressions of the customers.

  ‘I think it was a good day.’

  ‘Me too.’ And I mean it, despite all the frantic last-minute preparations and my fears that my cards would fail. ‘Thanks for keeping me company, I really appreciate it.’ And I do. All the worries I felt this morning have gone. And Peter seems to have genuinely had a good time.

  ‘No problem. If I wasn’t doing this I would have been sitting in my lounge pants on my laptop.’

  I stop packing. ‘Lounge pants? Peter, what the hell are lounge pants?’

  He makes a hand gesture that suggests this is a common term and I’m the odd one for not knowing. ‘Comfortable pants that you wear when lounging. Surely everyone has a pair of lounge pants?’

  He continues packing, and so do I. I carefully place the filched succulent into a safe corner of a box. I received so many compliments on it today. It was a good acquisition.

  And it really has been a good day: I learnt some interesting things, I sold some cards, I ate a delicious halloumi wrap and I did some great people watching. One girl even sniffed all my cards and then bought the one she said smelt like the intended recipient.

  Almost done with packing up, I look over at Peter, who has apparently wandered off and is now talking to another man. He is standing in that casual man stance with feet slightly apart, hips forward, arms crossed, surveying the room. He looks tall. Quite attractive actually.

  Oh God. Is it OK that I think Peter looks quite attractive?

  I’m frozen on the spot, staring. No, no, I don’t think that’s OK. Unable to shake the thought, I turn away – perhaps if I concentrate really hard on packing this last box …

  But as though I have a devil on one shoulder, I can’t help but glance at him again. He is looking good. He’s still on the gangly side, but he’s grown into his features. He really does look quite handsome.

  OK. This is a bit awkward.

  Is this a bit awkward?

  I find lots of my friends attractive. For example, Mia and Tilly are very beautiful, so, rationally, it should also be OK for me to appreciate the fact that Peter has become quite attractive. He’s not so odd any more. Or maybe he is, and I don’t care. It doesn’t mean anything.

  I nod and hope I look like a crazy woman listening to my own music, instead of a crazy woman trying to dislodge the unwanted thought that is now stuck in my head.

  I can’t help but think that Peter’s to blame for this errant thought – he was the one who claimed he’d asked me on a date, which has probably put some rogue ideas in my mind. But if he had actually wanted to go out with me back then, he would have made it more obvious, wouldn’t he? He would have told me, wouldn’t he? It’s not exactly like he’s been pining for me. He’s dated plenty of people in the timespan that I’ve known him, and he’s never asked me out again.

  Shit, he’s seen me staring. I wave in the hope this camouflages my recent train of thought. He waves back.

  I finish off the last bits of packing, tidying up the remaining cards and collecting the final crumbs of rubbish. Money-wise I’ve made about half the amount it cost me to come here today, but I’m OK with that. Like Peter said, you have to try these things out.

  ‘Are you ready to go? I can order a taxi and help you load up. We could get a six-person car, and if there’s room I’ll come back to yours and help you carry it up. It’ll take half the time.’

  This feels weird. I don’t think I should be near him at the moment. I worry he’ll be able to sense the inconvenient thoughts I’ve been having.

  ‘No, that’s really kind, but I’m good. It’s out of your way and I’m fine. Honestly, it’s an easy job to do and it won’t take me long.’ It will probably take me two hours. Not exactly easy, but I don’t want to rely on him for more than I already have – I can’t. If I do, one day he won’t be there, and then where will I be? I managed just fine this morning (eventually). I can do this now.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t mind.’
>
  ‘No, it’s a boring task and I’m good.’ I don’t want his lasting memory of the day to be schlepping up to my apartment.

  He almost looks a little hurt, and I feel bad.

  ‘OK then. Today’s been fun. Thanks for letting me come.’

  ‘Thanks for letting you come? Peter, if it wasn’t for you I would have sold about five cards.’

  ‘Nah. Your cards sell themselves. They’re great and so are you. Come here.’

  He reaches for me and I give him a hug. He’s always been a good hugger, and despite the height difference I fit well against him. He scratches my back in a relaxing way, and I close my eyes, just for a moment … He smells so good. Has he always smelt this good?

  ‘Pete, I’ve changed my mind. If there is room in the taxi, would you mind helping me?’

  CHAPTER 24

  Peter was right. Despite the fact his legs did look comically long folded into the front seat of the taxi that was pulled far, far forward, letting him help meant the whole unloading process went much more quickly, and with many more laughs, than it would have if I’d been by myself. Peter’s charm even worked on the taxi driver, who was not only fine with the time it took us to load and then unload, but she even helped.

  Once all the boxes were sitting by the front door of my apartment block, we took it in turns to ferry them upstairs. This last load we take together, and by the time we reach my door I know I have sweat on my forehead (and fear I also have some on my upper lip).

  I’m breathing more heavily than I’d hoped, but stairs have always been my nemesis. The additional weight from the boxes is making them even worse.

  We both put our boxes down wherever we can find space, and I do what I hope is a subtle sweat-wipe. I can hear Peter panting too, which makes me feel better.

  He looks at me and makes a face as if he’s in pain.

  ‘Drink?’ I gasp.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  I run through the options in my head. ‘Water?’ I wish I had something more exciting to give him. Water seems like a measly offering, especially after all the help he’s given me. ‘I might have some squash.’