Page 5 of The Second Chance Supper Club

Sitting on the back patio in the sunshine, in a cream wicker chair she’d brought with her from the guest bedroom in Roundhay, with the taste of honey, nuts and filo still melting on her tongue, Cath remembered calling in to that same village shop many years ago.

It would have been on a holiday with Mum and Dad, no doubt stopping for ice creams with her older sister, Susie.

They’d been having summer holidays up in Northumberland for years.

She was sure the brown wooden shelving had been the same, and back then they’d had one of those Walls freezers crammed with Cornettos, Twisters, Rockets and Lemonade Sparkles – they were her favourites back then, all lemony zing.

And then her mind moved on … to that last holiday, the one before Susie went off to uni.

Their parents wanted a trip together for old times’ sake, back to their happy Northumberland haunts.

Cath was so young, just sixteen, but of course felt all grown up.

Her thoughts drifted back. It was the year of her first ever romance, with that lad from Belford village, where they’d stayed in a caravan …

Matty. Floppy dark hair, gorgeous hazel-brown eyes, she could picture him now. Hah, after all this time.

Mum had even warmed to him when he’d called politely at the caravan one morning, hoping to see Cath.

As they were just about to go out, Mum had asked him along too, and they’d all gone down to Bamburgh beach together for a picnic lunch and a game of makeshift cricket (to please Dad) – simple pleasures.

Salt and sunshine and sand. And there, hidden in the dunes, her first kiss.

Why was she thinking about all this now?

That was … crikey, thirty-six years ago.

A touch of nostalgia stirred within. Life, love, relationships …

Her heart gave a weird pulse. She still felt a bit guilty that she’d had to leave that lad Matty in the lurch in the end.

It was all too much, too soon. But hey, that was all donkey’s years ago, and well in the past.

There had been a couple of boyfriend non-starters after that.

A few months of high-school holding hands, cinema trips and such like, until it all fizzled out.

And then, there was Trevor. They’d fallen for each other pretty quickly in those early heady days at university, and well, that was it.

Over thirty years together … and now this. The anger still buzzed within.

Had it been a total waste? She took a slow sip of tea as she pondered her own question.

Not really, she had to confess, there had been much that had been good over the years.

Their relationship had just veered off course in these past eighteen months.

Well, more like a car crash to be honest – dramatically, painfully.

But, a small voice inside admitted, maybe it had run its course.

That was so very sad, even if it were true.

But life was full of peaks and troughs, and though you couldn’t always see over the next hilltop or when the fogs came down, if you just kept going, kept plodding on, somehow, you’d find a way to get there in the end.

Wherever there was … ? There was always that glimmer of light, that branch of hope. She had to hold on to that.

The baklava and tea filled her up, so she didn’t really need to stop for lunch.

She’d popped the quiche in the fridge for another time, her appetite having gone AWOL lately.

Time to go and get that paint, and liven up her kitchen.

She got into her Mini and drove towards the hills, along winding roads lined with hawthorn hedges.

Within ten minutes, she had reached the small market town of Kirkton, nestled at the base of the Cheviot Hills.

The hardware store was at the far end of the high street.

Entering, it was like an Aladdin’s cave from the Seventies, with shelves piled high and narrow aisles.

Looking about her, probably much of the stock actually dated from then, too.

Kitchenware, homewares, pest control, cleaning materials, lightbulbs, DIY supplies, and yes, paint.

She was itching to get going now, so didn’t bother with tester pots, instead finding herself standing in front of the large tins and homing in on the yellow shades, checking out which matched her mood.

Bright and cheery, without being too in your face.

There was one called Sunbound that caught her eye.

A warm golden-yellow shade, like a daffodil’s trumpet.

It looked perfect. How much to buy? One can or two? She hadn’t a bloody clue.

She went to ask the man behind the till, who looked nothing like gorgeous Andreas by the way; this chap was well into his sixties with greying curly hair, wearing a drab grey overall.

She felt rather inept. The last time she’d done any decorating was for Adam’s nursery, when she was still pregnant and had gone into full nesting mode.

She’d chosen a gorgeous pale lemon shade, she remembered nostalgically.

Since then, Trevor had always insisted they paid for painters and decorators.

‘Well, those are a five-litre size you’ve been looking at.

It’s for a kitchen, you say? What kind of size room are we talking, pet?

’ The assistant’s Northumbrian lilt was warm.

‘Ah, it’s a cottage, so not too big … there are wall units and cupboards in place, so it’s not all needing done.

Oh, and a small dining area at the far end, galley style,’ she floundered.

Damn, he was probably wanting a concrete answer, square metres and such like.

He nodded sagely. ‘Aye, I think one five-litre’ll do yea. Yea can always pop back if you need more. We’ve plenty in.’ ‘Thanks, and I’ll need the tools to paint with too … brushes and everything, please.’ She was starting from scratch with all this.

He gathered together a roller, brushes, a plastic tray, some tape for the edges – ‘Save your skirts and coving’ – and some white spirit cleaning fluid. ‘Aye, that’ll do.’

‘Thank you so much.’

Cath paid, and as she was gathering her goods, the shopkeeper gave a warm wink, adding, ‘Good luck, pet.’

‘I think I might need it,’ she admitted with a wry smile, wondering if she’d bitten off more than she could chew. What if she made a right mess of it? But with finances stretched after the split, there was no way she could afford to get decorators in herself.

As soon as she got back, she was going to have to YouTube ‘How to paint walls’ to refresh her memory. It was twenty-two years ago when she’d last used a paintbrush, after all.

Back at the cottage, with YouTube watched – several clips in fact – stepladder up, and one of her older bedsheets on the floor plus a couple of protective towels on the surfaces, she was primed to make a start.

She was going to brushstroke the edges first, and then fill in with the roller.

Well, that was the plan. She took a deep breath as she tottered up to the top of the ladder, brush to hand along with her filled paint tray, and went in for the first stroke.

The colour was bold, all right. A splash of vivid yellow on white. She’d done it now.

Better keep going then. She was glad of the masking tape, as her hand felt unsteady at first, wobbling over the edges.

But as she settled into it, with Radio Two on for company, she began to relax into the task.

Well, as relaxed as you could be up a ladder with a tray of paint – when there was no one to catch her if she fell.

Stepping down for a break a half hour later, and stretching out her shoulders and knees which were nagging already, she surveyed her work so far.

Crikey, the shade looked darker than the square on the front of the tin.

She wasn’t sure about it at all. It looked more egg yolk than daffodil.

Oh, bugger, had she gone and got the colour wrong in her haste?

Would it darken the kitchen rather than lift it?

She made herself a strong coffee, finding sticky golden tints to her hair, and on her jeans.

Definitely egg-yolk coloured. But this was no time for doubts, and hey, if worst came to worst, she’d just have to buy another yellow shade – after testing it, naturally – and go again.

There wasn’t even anyone to ask their opinion.

She could take a photo and see what her sister, Susie, might make of it, she supposed.

But you know what it was like with phones, it might look different again in a picture.

After her caffeine hit, and diving in to the second baklava, she decided to soldier on, hitting the paint roller this time.

Broad strokes filled the space much more quickly now.

She lost herself for the next hour, humming away to the sounds of the Sara Cox show.

It felt a little like having a friend in the kitchen with her.

Perhaps she could send a picture to Sara and team, see what they thought?

She bloody well hoped it’d dry a bit better than it looked now.

She wanted primroses and daffodil tones to lift her mood, not runny egg yolks.

A ‘ping’ went off in her pocket. She carefully dismounted the stepladder and pulled out her phone to see a WhatsApp message appear on the screen. Ah, bless, it was Adam.

Hey Mum, how’s it going? Vietnam is amazing.

Oh, Vietnam. Cambodia left behind now, she mused, as she read on.

The people here are great, so friendly. In Ho Chi Min now. Been on a scooter tour of the city.

Oh, jeez, her heart blipped at that – images of manic streets filled with vehicles, perhaps even animals to dodge, and her son free-wheeling on some slip of a Vespa.

She hoped to goodness he’d worn a helmet, but seeing as he was texting, it was most likely over by now.

At least he had made it back in one piece.