‘Good at preparing for unmitigated disasters in advance?’ He looks up and catches me staring, and something warm flickers in his eyes. ‘Yeah, I do that a lot.’
I try to convince myself that’s not an omen as we make a start. I splosh some of the paint into a paint tray for Reece and take the can myself as he starts on the right side of the van, and I start on the left. The van has a white roof which we’re leaving alone, and a white trim around the bottom that we’ll also leave untouched, which just leaves two sides, the bonnet, and the back doors to cover. It’ll be fine, I repeat to myself for probably the twentieth time today, and it’s not even 10a.m. yet.
‘Long, smooth strokes. Thin coats. Easy as winking.’ Reece’s confident directions make me immediately suspicious given the definitely-not-confident waver in his voice.
I dip my brush in gingerly and then press it against the van, and paint starts dripping down in thick, yellow rivulets. ‘Sorry, Campervan,’ I tell her as I wipe off the excess and try again.
It turns out that painting a campervan is significantly harder than it looks. The paint is thick and gloopy, and the chemical smell is overwhelming even though we’re outdoors. Within five minutes, I’ve managed to get bright yellow paint on both sleeves of the borrowed overalls, paint has dripped onto the wheel and trying to wipe it off has done nothing but spread it, and Reece is making noises that convey ‘oops, that wasn’t supposed to happen’ in grunt form.
‘How’s it going over there?’ I expect to see a professional finish from someone who must paint many things in his line of work, so I go round to have a look and I’m comforted by the fact that even a professional is making his side look like it’s been painted by someone wearing oven mitts, and he’s managed to tread in the paint and the tarpaulin is covered in big, yellow footprints.
I go back to my side and tackle the painting again with renewed determination. I’m cutting-in around the edges with a small brush, and then I’m going to use a roller on the larger areas, like you would with a wall I think, trying to remember every home improvement programme I’ve ever watched.
It isn’t long before the brush snags and splatters paint all over me, and then my attempt to paint around the door handle ends with the door handle itself accidentally being painted. We work in companionable chaos for the next half hour, both of us getting progressively more paint-covered.
‘How have you got paint on the back of your neck?’ he asks when we meet halfway round at the bonnet, but he makes no move to get it off because his once-black gloves are almost entirely yellow now too.
Despite our obvious incompetence, the van is gradually transforming. It might not be the smoothest paint job, and it’s definitely going to need another coat later, but there’s something endearing about our amateur efforts. The yellow is bright and cheerful, and just looking at it makes me smile. Despite my misgivings, it was the right colour choice. Campervan looks happy and welcoming, which reflects how I’ve been feeling in the last few days – happy and welcomed.
‘What kind of building work do you normally do?’ I glance up at Reece where he’s working beside me, running a yellow mini-roller across the bonnet while I do the edges with my small brush, and I’m not sure if the close proximity helps or just makes my hand more unsteady.
‘Let me guess, you’re asking because you wonder how a professional builder can be so hopeless at painting?’
It’s yet another deflection, another answer that isn’t actually an answer, and I’m not going to let him get away with it. ‘No, I ask because I’m curious. What do you usually do? Presumably there’s some painting and decorating aspects to building work?’
‘I specialise in other areas.’
‘Such as?’
‘Structural repairs. Fixing things. Anything that doesn’t require artistic flair.’ He steps back to admire our handiwork. ‘Besides, painting doesn’t have to be perfect. This has character. Personality. Je ne sais quoi.’
I look at him as he holds his hand out for the paint so he can tip more into the tray. I feel this sense of connection between us, but I know next to nothing about him. The ladies in the village are right – he seems like an open book, and yet he volunteers very little personal information.
‘Tell me something about you?’ I ask as he hands the paint tin back and our gloved fingers catch against each other’s.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I don’t know. Anything.’ I search for inspiration as I go back round to the left side of the van. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’
‘Marzipan yellow.’ He doesn’t miss a beat as he goes back to his side too, the bonnet sufficiently yellow until it’s dry enough for a second coat.
‘Oh, hilarious,’ I mutter. That was a stupid question. Free rein to ask him anything, and I ask him what his favourite colour is like I’m a primary school child trying to make new friends. As if I couldn’t come up with something juicier than that.
‘All right, what’s your relationship status?’ I’m only brave enough to ask because I’m hidden behind the side of the van and he can’t see how red my face has gone for even thinking about it, but I also feel like we’ve shared enoughmomentsthat it’s something I probably should have asked long ago. ‘Are you single? Married? Seeing anyone who might object to you helping criminals disguise their stolen vehicles?’
‘Yes. No. No.’
‘Really, that’s it?’ I look round the side of the van but he doesn’t appear.
‘What else is there to say?’ he answers from behind the other side. ‘The answer to all of those options is a one-word answer. Yes, I’m single. No, I’m not married or seeing anyone. It’s not exactly an answer you can embellish much.’
Blood and getting it out of stones comes to mind, a task that would surely be easier than getting Reece to open up aboutanything. I grumble to myself and carry on painting without asking him anything else. It seems to end in nothing but frustration, and the silence across the van thrums with awkwardness.
After many minutes of sliding the roller up and down the sides, and filling in gaps around the curves with the brush, he finally speaks again. ‘I’m divorced.’
I freeze in surprise, both at the admission itself and at the fact he finally did expand on those one-word answers, especially without further prompting. My feet crunch on the tarpaulin-covered gravel as I go to the front end of the van and look over, and he appears on the other side of the front window.
‘How long ago?’ I ask, at a loss for anything elsetoask because it still doesn’t seem like he wants to expand much, and divorces are usually messy and not something to make light conversation about.
