Chapter 11 #2
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 10 a.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 enough moments that 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 about anything.
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 else to ask 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.
‘Couple of years.’
I chew on my lip, glad to have the tiniest bit more insight into him.
And then, before I can ask anything else, he goes back to deflecting. ‘And no, my taste in pyjama trousers wasn’t a deciding factor.’
I know he’s joking, but there’s something there, a waver hidden beneath the upbeat tone.
In my head, I’m thinking about his admission of being cheated on and wondering if it was this relationship he was talking about, and at the same time, I know he’s reached his limit of opening up for one day, and further questions will result in similar jokey answers and I try to play him at his own game.
‘Well, it would take a brave partner to share a bed with them.’
He laughs, but it isn’t a real laugh. His face has become pinched and the lines around his eyes look taut, and for a moment, he looks much older than he is.
I might not know the ins and outs of his divorce, but I know someone who’s been through something, and I feel like there’s a lot more to this than he’s saying.
I balance my roller on the paint tin and go round to his side.
Before he realises what’s happening, I wrap my wet, sticky and yellow gloved hand around his wet, sticky and yellow gloved hand and give his fingers the tightest squeeze possible with layers of rubber and copious amounts of paint between us.
‘I’m sorry. I know it’s not as simple as you’re trying to make it sound, and that’s okay.
Maybe you’ll tell me one day, or maybe you won’t, and that’ll be okay too. ’
He looks taken aback, his eyes wide and blinking slow in surprise. His tongue wets his lips and he swallows hard, his gaze sliding down to where our hands are joined. His grip tightens around my fingers, and it feels like a silent confirmation. There is more to this than he’s told me so far.
‘How have you managed to get paint on your ear?’ I echo what he asked me earlier.
I go to reach up and rub it off, but quickly realise that doing so with my gloves would only make an unholy mess, and I abandon the move halfway through. I’ve unwittingly stepped closer to him and ended up with my left elbow on his chest, and our right hands still joined together.
He murmurs a thank you, and his fingers squeeze mine impossibly tighter, and his eyes drift shut.
We’re standing close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of paint that have found their way into the waves of his brown hair, and close enough that when the tiniest smile starts pulling at his lips, it alters my ability to think clearly.
His head drops until he can rest his forehead against mine for a moment, and it feels like we’re about to embark on some yellow-covered waltz, but neither of us dare to move.
I lose track of time as we stand there. I’m not sure if it’s a kiss he can’t go through with, or the closest hug possible when we’re both in such a mess, but it’s only when the paint starts drying and there’s a genuine possibility that our gloves are going to stick to each other that I force myself to say something.
‘We should…’ I trail off because even I don’t know what I’m suggesting.
‘Probably,’ he agrees, and his low voice makes my stomach flip, and I still can’t tear myself away.
Until there’s the sound of voices approaching and a dog lets out a woof behind us and it breaks the spell.
We spring apart like guilty teenagers as a family of walkers come into view on the waterfall track, and we feign interest in our respective paint jobs and give them a nonchalant wave as they pass.
When they’ve gone, Reece grins at me. There’s paint on his cheek and mischief in his eyes. That was one step away from kissing, and I would not have complained if it had gone in that direction.
This is ridiculous. I’ve known him for a week, and I’m supposed to be dealing with the aftermath of one disastrous relationship, not falling headfirst into whatever this is.
But when he looks at me like that, with the yellow in his hair and on his face, and the once-black gloves that could now be a pair of Marigolds, all because of this wonderful, thoughtful thing he did for me, it’s impossible to think of anything else.
I have a tingling sense that we’re standing on the edge of something and one of us just needs to be brave enough to jump.
But I’m not that brave, and I shake my wrists out and brush myself down, and then remember my gloves were covered in paint and all I’ve done is smear yellow down the front of my overalls.
Reece laughs at the sight, and whatever just happened is lost to common sense, and I return to my side of the van and pick up the roller.
‘You’d think an ex-barrister is supposed to be a law-abiding citizen,’ I say after minutes of carefully not looking at him.
‘I can abide by the law tomorrow, this is more fun,’ he says with a noise of indifference. ‘I spent too long doing what you’re supposed to do. Having a good job, earning good money. You know what it taught me?’
His voice sounds like he’s looking over the bonnet again, so I do the same, and he catches my eyes. ‘Life’s too short to do what you’re supposed to do. Always choose the fun thing. And if an opportunity to paint a campervan bright yellow arises, always do that.’
I laugh, and I swear Campervan rocks like she’s laughing too, but it feels like yet another serious point that’s hidden underneath humour, and I’m intrigued, but I’ve probably pushed my luck enough for one day when it comes to prising him open.
The sun dries the paint fast enough to do a second coat before it gets dark, and when we’re done, Campervan looks like a giant, joyful chunk of sunshine.
We stand back and Reece drops an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me into his side, and I lean against him and inhale what was once aftershave but is now the chemical smell of paint fumes, and I feel safe. People say Yorkshire is a magical county, and I definitely see why.
For the first time, I have a plan about how to get out of this mess, a connection with someone who feels more than special, and a marzipan-coloured van that feels like mine… for now.