Some words
deserve a second look.

Your hopeful face has followed us into tonight, unfortunately. I would like a taste. But three halves suggests you've already been eating them, and I don't want to turn your last portion into an audition. Give me a spoonful of syrup first. I can decide whether I like bay without requisitioning the fruit. And take a spoon yourself; I refuse to be the only woman here having an experience while the other studies her marks.

That's quite enough syrup for me. The first second is lovely; the second tastes like the cupboard where you keep the leaves. I wouldn't want a bowlful. There, a culinary disagreement, and neither dress has caught fire. But I would like some fruit without quite so much of it. May I cut one half in two? You needn't make a fresh batch tomorrow to correct my opinion. I came to supper, not to commission a revision.

There. Two pieces, of no constitutional significance. I'll take this one. Oh—that I like. The fruit's still sharp. Leave mine drained tomorrow, if there's any left; keep your syrup. And stop watching my spoon. I wanted to ask something before I go, but you've made a small golden distraction. Tomorrow, after we've eaten, would you come out with me for a walk? I'd like to have you somewhere neither of us can rearrange the chairs.

Toward the river. Comfortable shoes; that's the full dress code. There's a closed shop on the way, with a green door. I used to have a key to it. I want to show you, though I haven't decided how much I want to say when we get there. That's the composed part, apparently. You can ask me about it tomorrow. Tonight, put your apricots back in the fridge. I'd like there to be two halves left when I arrive.

Outside. I returned the key; your feet will remain entirely respectable. And I'll take my coat, thank you, rather than leave you holding it while I make the pavement sound perilous. There is a name painted above the door. Mine. I haven't walked past it with anyone who knows me now. I wanted company for that, but saying 'a walk' was easier. You may reconsider the stop. The river is still available without it.

Your incurious face would worry me considerably more. Ask, and I can say no. But if I do, please don't make a joke so quickly that I have to laugh before I've finished being uncomfortable. I did the accounts there. Everyone assumes that means I knew exactly when to close. It doesn't. There—one answer you haven't had to extract. Now let me find the sleeve; you've handed me this coat as though it has only one.

By the door. Across the street I can pretend I'm looking at the whole building. I know that trick rather well. Thank you for the sleeve, and for stopping before you declared me innocent of an unspecified offence. I don't want a verdict tomorrow. I want to see whether I can stand under my own name without giving a full account of myself. If I start reciting figures, you may ask whether I've noticed the colour of the door.

Ask that. I'll try to answer the question you actually ask, which seems an appropriately ambitious plan for a pavement. And keep looking at the woman in the coat; she hasn't objected. Tomorrow at eight, with bread. But there's something I should tell you before we reach that door: the name above it wasn't painted over when I asked. I haven't asked again. I don't yet know whether I want you to help me choose the words.

I said, 'Would you cover my name when you next paint the front?' Those were the words. No date. It sounded practical at the time; the paint would already be out. Now I can't decide whether nothing happened because they forgot, because they haven't painted, or because I made it very easy to postpone. Please don't improve the sentence yet. I'd like you to hear how politely I managed to ask for something I wanted urgently.

You may disagree. I'd be disappointed if the shoes contained only agreement. But don't say 'you wanted it gone' as though that settles what I want now. I did want that. I also chose the lettering. I stood outside while it was painted and moved the second word half an inch to the left. Before you help me remove anything, I want to look at something I once took considerable pleasure in getting right.

Yes. Though if you call it charming, I reserve the same objection you made about your table. Tell me what you actually like. The V has a ridiculous long stroke; I defended it against an extremely sensible sample. I thought people would remember it. You see the difficulty. I don't only remember the closing. I'd like to tell you about the morning the sign went up, but I'm afraid you'll hear that as an argument for leaving it there.

Tomorrow, by the door. Tonight I really am going home; it's becoming very warm being interesting in a coat. And yes, the V was theatrical. You may enjoy that admission until eight. There's one detail I want to tell you there: when the painter finished, I asked him to leave the ladder for another minute. I hadn't found a mistake. Ask me what I wanted to see from up there. After supper, Vivienne. I intend to earn my potatoes by arriving on time.

You go. I'd like a minute here before we make a viewing party of two. And 'former proprietor' is a considerable amount to hang from a V. I told you I did the accounts and had a key; you haven't heard the rest. Look at the stroke, Vivienne. Tell me if it crowds the next letter. That was the painter's objection. I can hear your opinion perfectly well from two paces away.

The brush marks. From down here the name looked as though it had always belonged to the building. I wanted to see where someone had actually made it. So I climbed up and found a pencil line beneath the long stroke. He offered to clean it off. I asked him to leave it. Very shrewd: I had spent the morning moving letters half an inch, then preserved the one mark nobody was supposed to notice. It's underneath the V. You can't see it from here.

I liked it. It curved away from the finished stroke at the end; he'd changed his mind while painting. I found that rather reassuring after making him produce so many samples. There was still a decision in it that hadn't been mine. Don't look so delighted. I haven't secretly developed a taste for your splinters. But I did think of that pencil last night when you lifted the cloth. I nearly told you, then decided your table had endured enough comparison.

The river. Come on; I want to look at you without a sign over my head, and your neck has presented a convincing case. Leave the lettering exactly as it is tonight. I haven't decided what to ask about the paint. But you can ask me something else as we walk. My name was agreed before I ever took over the accounts. I said yes to the sign first. Ask me what I thought I was agreeing to.

We can stop. I was walking too quickly; the drainpipe needn't compete. But I want to stand a moment, not sit. Yes, the name was meant to tell people to ask for me. I was going to choose what went in the window and change it every Thursday. That was the arrangement I said yes to. The accounts came later. I had opinions about window displays before I became useful with a ledger, however difficult you may find that to imagine.

Three blue bowls, a yellow jug and a folded length of grey linen. I put the smallest bowl on its side so you could see the glaze inside. Everyone kept setting it upright. I wanted the name, too. If someone came in because they liked that window, I wanted to be the person they asked for. You may look surprised at the ambition, but don't make it a confession. I was good at choosing those things. I enjoyed being found.

Move your coat a little. Thank you. The first woman asked whether the yellow jug would pour without dribbling. I had arranged it so carefully that I'd never tried. So I fetched water, and we tested it over the basin. It dribbled spectacularly. She bought a blue bowl instead. I was embarrassed, then annoyed with the jug. You can stop smiling before you ask whether I kept it in the window. I took it out that afternoon.

I left the gap until Thursday. The bowls looked better with room; you're allowed to enjoy being right about the lettering. And yes, I liked hearing my name. For a while. Stay here another minute, Vivienne. You're much less distracting now that you've stopped wrestling the coat. There was a Thursday when I didn't change the window, although I'd already chosen everything for it. That was before the shop closed. If you ask what kept me from it, I can start there.

In the back room, at the small desk. Two amber glasses and a shallow black dish were on a tray beside it. I'd brought them through before opening. There was an invoice that didn't match the delivery, and I meant to settle it first. Nobody ordered me to sit down. That's the inconvenient part of your scenery. I put the tray on the floor to make room for the papers, and by lunchtime I was resting my foot against it.

It needed an answer that week. Not that morning. And yes, I preferred it, but not because it was easy. I could point to the correction and say precisely what I'd done. With the window, someone could shrug. The accounts gave me a way to be necessary that didn't depend on anyone liking my taste. I liked that much more than I care to admit. You can disagree with me now. Though I may confiscate your cutlery analogy if it becomes too accurate.

A woman tapped on the glass as I was leaving. She held up one finger, then pointed at the old display. I opened the door. She'd come on Thursdays because I changed it; she wanted to know whether she'd mistaken the day. I told her I'd been busy. Perfectly true, and rather mean. She apologised for disturbing me. I let her. Your attractive neighbour on this bench was not especially attractive at the door that evening.

She came back. I'd put the glasses and dish in the window on Friday, with no linen, and spent the week rehearsing an apology that became longer every time. On Thursday she asked to buy one glass. I said they were a pair. They weren't; I'd chosen them separately. Keep your knee there, please. That's the next bit I find difficult to tell. Ask me why I suddenly needed those two glasses to belong together.

Her finger. She'd pointed to the shorter glass, the one I'd put a little forward. I had chosen that position, and she'd noticed exactly what I wanted noticed. Then she wanted to use it somewhere I wouldn't arrange the light. I disliked that. The jug had failed at being a jug; this glass was doing its job. I wanted credit for choosing it and control over what happened after. An ambitious service to offer for the price of a glass.

She said, 'I only need one. It's for the water beside my bed.' There goes your kitchen. Then she asked the price of both, and I told her. I could have corrected myself while she considered it. Instead I lifted the taller glass out and set it beside the shorter one, as if their standing together proved something. She said she'd leave it, then. No purchase. I thanked her for coming in. I was suddenly excellent at courtesy.

I never said it. Not that day, not later. Every version began with how difficult my week had been; apparently I expected her to do some work before receiving an apology. I did make separate price cards after she left. Two little rectangles, very neatly cut. You would have admired my efficiency and been wrong again. I put them under the ledger. Please don't tell me what I could say to her now. I haven't finished telling you what I did then.

I could have put them out. Nobody needed to agree. The cards stayed under the ledger until closing; then I carried them to the window. Don't look relieved yet. I took the glasses out instead. Both of them, back onto the tray. The dish stayed. By Friday morning I'd made it possible for anyone to see that the window had changed, and impossible to buy what she'd wanted. Stay beside me. I haven't told you what I put in their place.

Grey linen. Folded into a low step, with the dish on top. I spent twenty minutes getting the front edge straight. The cards went underneath the dish; I hadn't even left them with the glasses. And yes, the dish was for sale. Its price was on the base, so someone had to ask me to lift it. You'd have managed that without much difficulty. I suspect you'd have asked me to lift it twice.

Yes, I thought it looked better. You needn't persuade me the number was useful. I knew. But don't put that woman on the pavement again; I don't know whether she ever saw the linen. Someone else came in on Friday and asked the price. I lifted the dish, read it out, and found the two cards stuck to its base. She asked whether those prices were for the dish as well. There was my beautifully clear arrangement.

I told her they belonged to two glasses I'd taken out. She asked to see them. I nearly said they weren't available, then fetched the tray instead. You can laugh now; I had to carry the whole thing because I hadn't brought anything to put the dish on. She chose the taller glass. I used its card and put the other beside the shorter one on the counter. Then she asked why I'd taken them out of the window.

I said I'd preferred the window without them. She said she preferred being able to see what there was to buy. Then she bought the taller glass. No grand confrontation; she needed me to wrap it. The shorter one stayed on the counter with its card until closing. I kept looking at it from the desk. Now I'd like to walk, if your shoes will permit it. You can ask what happened to that glass. I still know exactly where it went.

Mine. I bought it. Wrote the sale in the book, put the money in the till, wrapped it in the same paper I'd used for the taller one. You may keep this side of me; the pace is better already. I took it home in my bag. That sounds almost sensible until I tell you I didn't need a glass. I had six. I wanted that particular one off the counter before Saturday.

No expected visitor. Saturday was the next morning; I wanted the counter clear when I opened. Here, take my arm for the uneven bit, if you'd like. At home I unwrapped it beside the sink and drank water from it. It was a good glass. Pleasant rim, enough weight in the base. I disliked finding that out. I'd made an ordinary purchase difficult for her, then given myself exactly what she'd asked for.

I kept using it. It's in my cupboard now, second shelf, behind a mug with a chipped handle. You may look disappointed by the absence of a ceremonial cupboard. I don't think of her every time I reach for it. Sometimes I only want water. That's less impressive to tell you than a daily pang, but it's true. And I like your hand there. We have passed the uneven bit; you can decide whether it still requires assistance.

I moved the dish's price onto a card where it could be read from outside. Then I went to the desk. You can approve of the card without making it the morning I became a better woman. By ten I'd already been asked to move it because it spoiled the linen. Keep your hand there while I tell you this part. It was the person who kept setting my blue bowl upright. You asked who that was. Do you still want to know?

My older sister. She came in with two coffees, put mine beside the ledger, and stood looking at the window while hers cooled. She said the card interrupted the line of the linen. Not an order. I picked it up before she'd finished explaining where it might go instead. Put it flat behind the dish, where the price faced the ceiling. You may dislike that. She hadn't even asked for it to disappear.

She said, 'I meant beside it, on the wood.' Then she reached past me and stood the card against the dish, off the linen. You could read it from outside. I told her I'd put it there later, which was absurd while it was already there. She asked why I always made a correction sound like an accusation. I took my coffee to the desk. You can loosen your grip on my sleeve; the river hasn't acquired another uneven patch.

The card stayed. The bowl was different. I wanted it on its side, with the inside facing the street; she wanted it upright because people might think it had fallen. We had that conversation three times. On the fourth morning I found it upright and left it. No customers to rescue, no unreadable price. I simply hadn't wanted another discussion before opening. I was angry with her all day, and when she asked what was wrong, I said nothing.

She said, 'You asked me to keep coming in.' I had. The first week I was doing the accounts, I asked her to look at the window every morning because I couldn't bear to leave the desk. I hadn't said the invitation could end. That didn't give her the bowl forever, but I'd let her keep arriving as help and greeted her as interference. Your promise is appreciated. Keep walking with me. I haven't told you what she asked to stop doing instead.

She asked to stop coming before opening. Said she could bring coffee later if I wanted company, but she didn't want to begin every day finding out whether she'd been useful or irritating. I said later was usually busier. A splendid answer to an offer she hadn't made. There was a spare chair beside the desk. It had a box of wrapping paper on it. I remember that more clearly than what I did with my coffee.

It was busier. It was also a useful fact to hide behind. She said, 'Then ask me when you have time,' and took her cup away. Not a slammed door. I resent how often that would improve the telling. On Monday I arrived early and found the bowl exactly as I'd left it. I turned it onto its side. Then I stood at the door looking along the street for her. I had got the morning I'd apparently wanted.

On Wednesday. I asked her to come at half past eleven and said I'd make the coffee. She came at twenty-five past, which I noticed with the generosity you'd expect. I had moved the paper onto the floor. Before she sat down, I told her the bowl was staying on its side. She said she hadn't come to see the bowl. Then she asked if we could sit somewhere she wouldn't have to watch me reach for the ledger.

On two dining chairs at the back, facing each other. I left the ledger open. After a minute she asked whether I wanted to hear about her morning. I said of course, rather indignantly. Until then I'd assumed she had nothing happening before she came to me. That's the part I dislike telling you. She had brought something of her own to ask about, folded in her coat pocket. I remember putting my cup down when she showed me.

A leaflet for a furniture restoration course. Six Saturday mornings, starting at nine. She'd circled the part about bringing a small piece to work on. Her sentence was, 'Would you come with me to the first one?' There, unabridged. I asked who was teaching it. She showed me the name, and I asked whether materials were included. Both reasonable questions. You can probably hear how pleased I was to have found some.

I was usually at the desk by nine on Saturdays. I could have asked to change that. I didn't. I said she could bring the piece into the shop and we could look at it there. She folded the leaflet along its old creases and said she wanted to learn from someone who knew how. Fair enough. I'd never repaired a chair. But I'd managed to offer myself as the alternative to a teacher within three minutes.

She did. She wanted someone to arrive with, because she hated the first few minutes when everyone seemed to know where to put their coat. Then she intended to go alone. The piece was her kitchen stool; one leg shifted when she sat on it. I said I'd never known her worry about entering a room. She said, 'You generally see me entering yours.' I stopped arguing about materials after that. I hadn't realised how much I relied on her looking certain.

I said yes. Then I asked about carrying the stool; you may enjoy being almost right. I arranged the morning away from the desk, and we met outside the class at ten to nine. She had the stool. I had a little chair from my kitchen, which surprised her because I'd said I was only coming for company. Nothing was broken on it. Slow down here, Vivienne. I want to tell you why I brought it before you decide I was being helpful again.

I wanted the brown paint off it. I'd wanted that for years. There was a pale patch under the seat where the brush hadn't reached, and I liked it better than the parts I could see at breakfast. I told my sister I'd brought something in case there was time. She asked whether I'd booked a place. I hadn't. Apparently I expected a chair to be accepted as an application. You may admire the logistics; the motives were less organised.

She'd reserved a place; we paid there. And she didn't negotiate. She said, 'Ask him,' and took her stool inside. I stood in the doorway holding mine by the back until the teacher asked whether I was bringing in another seat. I said I wanted to learn to remove the paint. There was a cancellation. I paid for the six mornings. That wasn't what I'd arranged with the shop, of course. I'd arranged one. There is your properly inconvenient wish.

I told her I'd booked. She looked at the chair and said, 'You've always hated that brown.' Then she asked me to take the bench opposite. Hers was narrow, and she wanted space to turn the stool over. I had already put my bag beside hers. I moved it. For the first hour I could see her listening to someone without knowing what they were saying. I wanted to go across twice. The second time she was laughing. That was harder.

Yes. I was jealous. She'd needed me at the door and stopped needing me before I'd put my bag down. I stayed at my bench and asked the teacher where to begin. At the break I told her I wanted the next five mornings too. She said, 'Then you'll have to ask at the shop.' She knew what I hadn't arranged. Keep your arm there. When I went back that afternoon, I took the course dates to the desk. I haven't told you what answer I got.

Nobody. That's an inconvenient beginning, but it's the correct one. I was alone when I got back. I put the leaflet across the open ledger and copied the five dates onto a sheet. Beside each I wrote what had to be finished by Friday. By closing I had a respectable little plan. The leaflet was underneath it. You asked what I said: nothing, that afternoon. I had produced something to discuss without having to begin the discussion.

Ada. She worked Saturdays with me and had opened for the first class. On Monday I showed her the sheet. She asked whether the Friday list meant I wanted her to stay late. I said no, I'd do those things. Then she asked which extra jobs she'd have on Saturday. There were two: take a delivery if it came early, and write down any account questions. She said she could do that. I kept explaining the list. She put her finger on the first date.

She said, 'What time will you be back?' Noon, I told her. She wrote twelve beside each date and handed me the sheet. That was the answer. No speech about deserving a hobby; I would have disliked that intensely. I disliked the speed instead. I'd made myself ready to bargain, and she wanted to know when she could take her lunch. I did go the next Saturday. Before you congratulate me, I managed to spoil a piece of the chair.

A gouge across the front edge of the seat. I pushed the scraper when it caught. The teacher had told me to stop if that happened; I wanted one clean strip to show my sister at the break. You needn't rescue it with an adjective. I turned the chair so the mark faced me and put the scraper down. Then I asked him to come over. He looked at it and asked what finish I wanted. That was when I realised I'd only decided what I wanted taken off.

I said I wanted to see the wood. He wiped the cleared strip with a damp cloth so I could see more of its colour. It was yellower than the patch underneath. I didn't like it. There: years of disliking brown had apparently qualified me to dislike yellow. He had some painted samples on the shelf. I asked to look at them, then felt absurd about paying to remove paint so I could put paint back.

A blue so dark I took it for black until I held it nearer the window. I put it beside the pale yellow sample and kept moving it back into the light. You see why I didn't bring this to you for an efficient verdict. My sister came over at the break. I showed her the gouge first. She said, 'Yes, I can see that. What are you holding?' I'd hidden half the blue under my thumb.

I held it out. She thought it would be too dark beside my table. I told her the table was by the window, as though she'd never eaten there. Then I stopped and asked to borrow the sample until Saturday. The teacher said yes. I took the yellow too. Not to be fair: I wanted to see whether she was right. You're both distressingly fond of yellow. I put them against the chair at home before making tea.

The blue. I left it propped there through breakfast and chose it the next morning. I asked the teacher to show me how to fill the gouge before painting; I wasn't keeping it as a lesson. You'll see how well that went if you come on Sunday. Nine, coffee and eggs, just us. But I'd like an answer about something besides the chair. Tonight you asked what I wanted for supper. What would you like me to make room for on Sunday?

I like chives. I'm less certain about being assigned the coffee in my own kitchen before you've found the door. I invited you because I'd like to make you breakfast. That may sound excessively territorial over three eggs, but it matters to me. You fed me tonight. I'd like a turn. Would you still want the omelette if I made it, or is holding the pan part of what you're asking for?

The stove is two steps from the table. I can disappoint you without leaving the room. Come at nine, not twenty to, and keep me company while I cook. You can stand beside me if you leave enough room for my elbow. But I don't want every plate I put down to be returned as a chore you owe me. You asked me for potatoes tonight. Was it easier to hear what I wanted because you were the one serving?

I usually scramble them. You may have asked for the only breakfast at which I can be less competent than I intended. Soft in the middle, chives. I'll try. And I enjoyed supper; I'm not proposing to search the cupboards for ulterior motives. You can enjoy making something and be relieved to have a task. I'd like you to bring yourself at nine, though. No emergency pastries in case I mishandle the eggs. Can you bear to arrive without a reserve breakfast?

Notice whatever you notice. I'd rather you didn't crouch in the doorway hunting for the flaw. I filled it myself, then sanded too much from the patch and had to fill it again. Under the blue there's still a shallow dip; you can feel it more easily than see it. I wanted to tell you that before you arrived, which is suspiciously like handing you a report. So here's a different question. On Sunday, will you sit in it before I explain anything else?

I normally sit in the blue one. The other chair faces the window, which is pleasant until the sun reaches the glass and you spend breakfast looking past your own reflection. I wasn't allocating you a place permanently. I wanted you to try something I'd made usable. And yes, I intend to eat. If the omelette needs a minute, you can tolerate my back for a minute. I won't burn it to demonstrate that you're welcome.

A little. I pictured you in it when I asked you, and you've inconveniently developed a preference. But the other seat is available. It usually has books on it. I moved them to the shelf this afternoon, before coming to supper. That isn't a declaration concealed in furniture; I wanted to ask you over, and I knew I'd find a reason to postpone it if I got home to a room with nowhere for you to sit.

A cookbook, a novel and a book about repairing furniture whose advice I now read before touching anything. You can be pleased. I did want you there. The novel is the one with the cracked spine. I've written in its margins, which my sister considers vandalism. On one page I've disagreed with myself so often there's barely room for the printed sentence. You may look at the shelves on Sunday. I haven't agreed to lend you that one.

After breakfast, then. I'll read the passage and cover the margin with my hand. You can disagree with the printed page before you meet any of my objections. And don't spend breakfast trying to earn the reading by praising the eggs. Choose the seat you want once you've tried the blue one. I cleared a chair because I wanted company, not a favourable report. There's something in that passage I defended for years. I'm not sure I can still defend it aloud.