Page 30 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘Yeah, very nice.’

‘And not just any old chocolates,’ I add, ‘but “blended with fresh double cream, wild flower honey and touch of Dorset sea salt”—’

‘—I’m thinking we could maybe get a replacement eye?’ Having propped up the brush, Sam is studying his phone intently.

‘D’you know what I’m thinking?’ I remark.

‘No, what?’

‘That Lucy’s got a bit of a fancy for you,’ I announce.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Come on, Sam. The way she was twinkling at you there…’

‘Look, there’s this place here that does taxidermy supplies.’ His brow furrows as he returns his attentions to his phone.

‘Twinkling all over like a disco ball!’

‘Look at these. Would these do?’ He thrusts his phone at me, and I peer at the rows of amber-coloured eyes.

‘I don’t think they’re right.’

‘No, not those. They’re for large mammals⁠—’

‘—Trudy notices things,’ I cut in. ‘Honestly, she can spot a crisp crumb nestling on the rug. It’s all, “Oh, Andie, I think there’s something there, love. Shall I get your hoover?” I can’t just stick on a bear eye and hope for the best⁠—’

‘No, look,’ he says with a trace of exasperation. ‘There’s a fish-eye section here…’

I flick it a cursory glance. ‘They don’t look right either. I might as well stick on a button, Sam. A granny’s coat button. I’m not going to get away with that.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine in situ, under glass,’ he insists.

I exhale heavily. ‘They’re arriving tomorrow. There’s no time to order anything.’

Sam pushes back his wavy hair. It was a deep chestnut brown when we first met, and over the years it’s turned salt-and-pepper. But it’s still abundant and suits his older face, despite not being trimmed – according to Eva – nearly often enough. However, I like that too. The fact that Sam’s appearance doesn’t seem to concern him very much, in contrast to Phil, my ex, who I once caught trying to selfie the area of worrying thinning on top of his head – and indeed Dom. Could that be another factor in my not warming to him especially? The fact that his pampered hands are in sharp contrast to Sam’s, which bear the scars and healed-over cuts from decades of working with tools and glass and splintery wooden frames?

I look at Sam. ‘You don’t think there’s another eye on his backside?’

He frowns. ‘I’m not that well up on fish anatomy, but I don’t think⁠—’

‘I mean on its other side,’ I clarify. ‘The side that’s attached to the background?’

‘Nah, I think we’re out of luck.’ He looks genuinely regretful as we agree that fish taxidermists should always include an extra eye somewhere, like when you get a little pack of spare buttons stitched inside a new jacket. ‘Still want me to put in the new glass?’ he asks.

‘You mean seal him in blind?’ I exclaim.

He smiles grimly. ‘Well, he has been dead since 1937.’ Which, admittedly, I can’t argue with. So he gets to work, and as we settle into an easy silence I mull over Lucy’s visit. I’m pretty sure it was engineered so she could see him again. But maybe I’m running away with this, and she just wanted to express her thanks? Do picture-framers often receive unexpected gifts, I’m wondering now? ‘That was thoughtful of Lucy, to invite you to her exhibition,’ I say lightly.

‘Us. She invited both of us.’

‘Yeah, but come on.’ I scan his expression for how he might feel about this. ‘Will you go, d’you think?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ The replacement glass is in place now, and he polishes it with a cloth. Lifting the fully restored frame, he angles it towards me. ‘Think they’ll notice the no-eye situation?’

‘Hmm, I don’t think they will. And if they do I’ll just plead ignorance. Say it must have disintegrated, crumbled to dust…’ Sam lays the frame flat on the workbench and appraises it. ‘Thanks so much,’ I add. ‘You’re a wonder.’

‘Hey, just doing my job.’