On Saturday, September twelfth, I finally bought curtains.
They were yellow, slightly too long, and cheaper because one packet had been opened. I brought them back from the shop and held them against the window before deciding I still liked them.
It was two weeks since the Saturday without a wedding.
The lamp stood on my desk. My books were beside it, and the coat hung on the hook behind the door. There was a little bowl on the shelf for my keys, although I still put them everywhere except in it.
I had the day off. I meant to put up the curtains, eat something good and walk along the sea before it got dark.
The curtain hooks were more complicated than I had expected. By the time I had one side hanging, I was warm and cross, standing on a chair I'd checked twice before trusting it.
My phone buzzed on the desk.
I climbed down to look.
Bea had sent a photograph of her living room. The sofa had moved to the other wall. The little table stood by the window, with a jar of flowers on it. It still had cardboard under one leg.
Moved things around. I can see out of the window from the sofa now.
I smiled.
I looked at it for a minute, then called her.
She answered quickly.
“Hi.”
“The table survived.”
She laughed. “Barely. I had to take the legs off.”
“Did you put them back right?”
“I think so. I haven't dared put my tea on it yet.”
I sat on the bed and looked at the one curtain I'd managed to hang.
“I've bought curtains,” I said.
“What colour?”
“Yellow.”
“Send me a picture.”
“When they're both up. At the moment it looks as if the window has a fringe on one side.”
“A bold choice.”
I laughed. It was good to hear her laugh back without something painful immediately following it.
She asked about the guesthouse. I told her about a guest who insisted the sea had been louder on his last visit, and the manager who'd suggested closing the window.
“Did he?”
“Eventually. I don't think he was happy about it.”
“You can't please everyone.”
“I've been informed.”
There was a brief pause. I could hear the small sounds of her flat, a cupboard closing, something set down on a counter.
“I've been back at the shop,” she said. “That's helped.”
“Good.”
“We're using the cream ribbon. You were right to keep it.”
“It was nice ribbon.”
“It was.”
I looked at the room key in my little bowl. For once it was where it belonged.
I wasn't ready to tell Bea everything I thought when I woke up at night, or every small thing I liked about living here. I had wanted to tell her about the curtains. Today that was enough.
“I've got to finish them,” I said. “Then I'm going for a walk.”
“Okay.”
“I'll send the picture later.”
“I'd like that.”
She didn't ask whether she could come this weekend, or whether I was still angry. She let the call be the call I had made.
“Bye, Bea.”
“Bye, Lu.”
I put the phone on the desk.
The second curtain went up more easily than the first, probably because I had stopped trying to attach the hooks backward. I stood on the floor and looked at both sides. They were still a little too long.
I could sort that another day.
I took a photograph and sent it. Then I changed into the coat Bea had mended and found the blue fish clip in the drawer. I put it in my hair, where it held the loose pieces away from my face.
Downstairs, someone was checking in. I waved to the person at the desk and went out through the side door into the garden.
The lavender brushed my sleeve. Beyond the hedge I could hear the sea, loud enough that the complaining guest might have been right about it.
I bought chips on the way to the beach and ate them sitting on the low wall above the sand. The wind lifted my hair, but the clip held. I could see people down by the water, walking slowly, carrying shoes.
My phone buzzed once in my pocket. I left it there until I'd finished eating.
When I looked, Bea had replied to the curtain picture.
They look lovely.
I sent her a heart, put the phone away and went down to the sand.
The tide was out. There was plenty of room to walk before I went back to my own door.