‘What kind of thing?’
‘A flatpack thing,’ he mutters.
It takes a moment for me to register this properly. A flatpack thing. Was this the reason for his call? ‘What flatpack thing?’ I ask.
‘Remember that shelving unit you nagged me to order?’
‘I didn’tnagyou, Vince. I just suggested that you might consider having a piece of actual furniture in your study instead of a row of dented cardboard boxes—’
‘Yeah. Yes, you did. Well, the thing youencouragedme to buy to turn my working environment into a sleek and highly efficient nerve centre of creativity—’
‘It’s finally arrived?’ I start to walk back to the shop. It’s still open, a little past our normal closing time. Alice must have let the women in for a browse.
‘It has. Yeah.’
My gaze alights upon the bookshop’s window display. We’ve just redone it, Fergus and I. The selection of natural history books is set off with an autumnal arrangements of twigs, fir cones and coppery leaves. Beyond it, I glimpse Alice and Fergus and the women all chatting animatedly.
‘Have you built it?’ I ask.
‘Erm, not quite yet. I, um... just wondered...’ Vince clears his throat. ‘D’you know where the tools are?’
‘The toolbox, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’ He sounds sheepish.
‘It’s in the shed, under that old chest of drawers of your dad’s. But you probably won’t need it, if it’s just basic flatpack. There are screwdrivers in the kitchen drawer – Phillips and flathead – and there should be an Allen key in the packet—’
‘What packet?’ he asks.
‘Thepacket, Vince. There’s always a packet of little bolts and things along with the instructions—’
‘No,’ he says forcefully. ‘There aren’t any instructions. I’ve pulled everything out and checked a hundred times—’
‘Are they hiding under the label on the front of the box?’
‘No! I’ve checked that too.’I’m not an idiot,his tone says.
‘Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do from up here.’
‘I thought you might know,’ he says in a quieter tone. ‘I thought... y’know. You might have some tips.’
I exhale slowly, picturing Vince surrounded by panels of MDF. ‘Just approach it methodically,’ I start. ‘And don’t rush. Think about it carefully instead of barging at it like a maniac. You know you can do it if you take it step by step.’
‘Right,’ Vince says cautiously, as if I am issuing instructions on how to deliver a baby.
‘And don’t panic or get angry or try to ram things together that won’t go.’
‘Okay. Fine. I won’t.’
In the pause that follows I sense him rousing himself for the task ahead. ‘And that’s it, Vince,’ I conclude, pushing open the bookshop door. ‘They’re all the tips I have.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Vince
Vince has always enjoyed raging against IKEA. The terrible one-way system, guiding customers through the store like scented-candle-seeking zombies, stumbling for Daim Bars and hot dogs in that weird, pillow-stuffing bread that he’d still be picking from his teeth next time they went. Around twice a year, Kate would badger him to go. He might have huffed and moaned, dragging his feet through the marketplace like a teenager forced to look at Renaissance paintings in a gallery. But at least he’d gone. So he can’t have beenthatbad a husband, can he?
If only this unit had come from IKEA, then at least he’d have the satisfaction of being able to complain bitterly about the company (albeit with only a spaniel as his audience). But it didn’t. Rebelliously, ignoring Kate’s suggestions and the helpful links she’d sent him, he’d gone for an unknown cheaper brand.
