‘Exactly! Anyone looking for you is going to be looking for a lime-green campervan. With this, you won’thavea lime-green campervan. It’s camouflage.’
‘It’s…’ I take the tin of paint out of his hand and look at it. ‘It’s bright yellow.’
‘The shade is called Marzipan – that’s why I bought it. It seemed like a sign after your mention of Battenberg yesterday.’
‘You think we should hide the campervan by painting it the colour of Big Bird? A colour that screams “Look at me!” in every conceivable way?’ I rub my eyes, certain I’m missing something here.
‘At the moment, it’s screaming “radioactive vomit”, so yes, why not? It’s bright and sunny and happy, and who doesn’t need more of those things in their lives?’ The smile on his face is all of those things and more. ‘It doesn’t matter if people look at it – itdoesmatter if your ex is mounting a campaign to find it and someone recognises it. With this, they won’t.’
He’s half-bouncing on his feet because his leg is holding him back from full enthusiasm, and there’s something infectious about it that makes the idea of painting a stolen campervan bright yellow seem completely sensible. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because I like you and I don’t want you to go anywhere.’ He falters and his cheeks turn red like that wasn’t meant to come outquitelike that. ‘I mean, I enjoy your company. And I only want you to move on from here if you’re ready to, and I don’t want you to be constantly looking over your shoulder. The worst thing you can do to attract attention istryto hide it. Nothing would look more suspicious than painting it brown and trying to cover it with tree branches. For now, this is your van and you have every right to be in it. If you projectthatoutwards, nothing can go wrong.’
I almost laugh because there isn’t anything thathasn’tgone wrong lately, but I’m also touched by how easy he makes everything seem, and by the fact he’s even thought of this.
I take the paint again and hold it up. The colour swatch on the front is a beautiful, creamy yellow that really does make me think of marzipan, and itisvastly better than the colour Jared chose. It’s one of those decisions you can’t really back out of once you’ve made it though. If I do this, it’s… what? Staking my claim? Really, truly trying to take ownership of the campervan? It isn’t mine and I never intended to keep it, but what else am I going to do? For the time being, itismine and I like it more than I thought I would.
‘Have you just been out and bought this?’ I ask, mainly to buy myself time to overthink it in my head, and when he nods, I go to reach for my purse. I have no idea what car paint costs, but it looks expensive. ‘What do I owe you?’
‘Nothing.’ He looks surprised that I even considered it. ‘Honestly. You’re the most exciting thing to happen round here in months, it’s the least I can do.’
‘Thank you.’ I like how he says what he thinks and doesn’t even try to beat around the bush. ‘I like you and I want you to stay’ is the nicest thing I can remember hearing in months, years maybe, and he simply blurts it out like it’s normal to be that straightforward. ‘And you want to help? Isn’t that aiding and abetting or perverting the course of justice or something?’
‘Only if you get caught. That’s what makes it fun.’
I laugh out loud. That’s been the story of my life lately, and he’s the first person to inject any fun into it. His grin makes it impossible to cling onto my sensible side. I’ve already stolen the van and I trust Reece’s expertise that the police aren’t mounting a countrywide search for me. He’s right on this too – it would be better to makesurethat no one will recognise the campervan and… stay here? Maybe I could look for a job up here? Stay in the campervan long enough to save a deposit for a flat, and then get in touch with Jared to return it? What better plan do I have at the moment? Sharing my plans for the café with Reece last night has made a million ideas swirl in my head, and I keep picturing the closed tearoom in the village and the ladies who still use it, despite having to bring their own tea and cake…
‘Don’t you have to work?’ I ask when I realise Reece has been smiling at me through many minutes of silence.
‘It can wait,’ he says with a nonchalant shrug.
‘Seriously? You can just take days off whenever you feel like it? Don’t you have a schedule to stick to? Doesn’t your mysterious boss ever check up on what you’re doing? What if he turned up for a random spot check and found you painting a campervan in the car park?’
‘Not gonna happen.’ He does the same nonchalant shrug, and when I narrow my eyes, he sighs. ‘The work will get done, one way or another. One day doesn’t make any difference. Kingfisher House will always be there… more’s the pity.’
The last three words are added as nothing more than a murmur, and I don’t think I was supposed to hear them, nor see the eyeroll that accompanied them.
At the exact same moment as I do, he realises his guard came down with those words, and he gets flustered and uneasy.
He waves an all-encompassing hand towards the campervan and my pyjamas and messy hair. ‘Get yourself sorted and come up to the pub. I’ve got overalls you can wear, tarpaulin to save any spillages in the car park, plenty of paint rollers and brushes, and Imayhave called in the village shop so either breakfast is waiting, or I’m going to eat two Yorkshire curd tarts on my own.’
The words are fast and tumbling over themselves and he’s already backing away, like he’s hoping if he moves fast enough, I’ll forget what I just heard. I watch him as he tries to get away faster than he can limp, and then I watch from the back window as he hobbles up the steps towards the pub, looking like he’s giving himself a bollocking.
I quickly have a wash and change out of my pyjamas, and get my hair out of the way in a claw clip, but I can’t stop thinking about the words that I wasn’t meant to hear… There issomethinggoing on in that pub and I’m going to find out what.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, we’ve eaten breakfast and finished our coffees, and I’m wearing a pair of Reece’s overalls that are ridiculously oversized on me and standing on the steps, clutching an array of paint brushes and rollers, while he spreads sheets of tarpaulin on the ground surrounding the campervan to protect the car park’s gravel from yellow paint.
‘Are you supposed to paint vehicles with rollers and brushes? Isn’t it some sort of air gun spray thingy?’
‘You got one?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither.’ He shrugs without looking up, an all-encompassing shrug that says we’ll work with what we’ve got.
‘You’re very good at that,’ I observe, trying not to notice how his T-shirt pulls across his shoulders when he bends down to secure tarpaulin corners with bricks.
