“Singer, not funny.” The drill screeches through the wood.
“Russell Crowe.”
“Never seen him do comedy. Pass me the screwdriver, will you?” He holds his hand out. “The Phillips head.”
I find it the first time, which, for a non-screwdriver aficionado, is impressive. I slap it in his open palm. “Hugh Jackman, Rebel Wilson, Chris Hemsworth?—”
“Is that Thor?” He reaches for plywood B.
“Yes.”
“A screw, please.”
I empty the bag and pass them to him one by one as he needs. “And Nicole Kidman, Cate Blanchett, Margot Robbie?—”
“What about them?”
“They’re funny.”
“You’re just naming actors.”
“Funnyones.”
He stands back. “Potato, pota-toh.”
I’ve been too busy arguing with him that I barely noticed he’s attached three sides of the booth. Enough that it actuallylookslike a booth, with its pre-painted red-and-pink stripes.
“Hey, you’ve done it.”
His eyes slice to mine, narrowed. “I told you I wasn’t completely useless at flatpack furniture.”
“I never said you were.” I nudge him hard enough that heoofs. “It’s not quite the same as the one Miles destroyed, is it?”
Hendricks shakes his head and laughs. “No.”
“Shame. He deserves a little PTSD from that day.”
Now that the sides are on, it takes no time to attach the roof, a scalloped-edge design that makes it look like we’ve built a life-sized—if not cartoony—pink-and-red-striped shop front. It’s very kitsch and fifties, and we discover what the red fabric is for. Mrs. Winston, being Mrs. Winston, added drapes.
There’s also a packet of self-adhesive decals, including a sign to go across the top, plus a whole bunch of hearts in red and different shades of pink—and applying them is where I make my usefulness known. Hendricks is only too happy to let me.
When we’re done, I stand back, hands on my hips, and admire our collective handiwork.
“Not bad at all. Cute, actually.”
“I’d go as far as beautiful?—”
“Yes.” I nod. “Beautiful.” Butwhen I look over, expecting to see Hendricks admiring the stand, he’s spun his hat back around and is looking at me. “What?”
“Nothing.” He reaches down to the cool box of beer and pulls out two, then hands one over. “Good teamwork for one day.”
“Even if the start was rocky.”
“As well as the dubious claim about your comedic skills.”
“Hey!” I gently nudge my leg against his. “I am funny.”
“Okay, we can agree to disagree.” He brings the bottle to his lips. “What else were you doing in Australia? Wrestling crocodiles? Barbecuing?”
