Page 10 of Something Borrowed

I sigh deeply, and the remaining buttons on my shirt give up the fight one by one. They pop off and ping onto the floor in the quiet hush of the church. I bite my lip and watch them roll jauntily across the floor towards my boss’s feet.

He meets my gaze.In my office tomorrow, he mouths.

“Amen,” the vicar and the congregation intone.

Chapter

Two

Stan

“I’ll have this one, please.”

The woman’s voice jerks me from my daydreaming at the counter.

“Sorry,” I say quickly and put out my hand. Nothing happens for a second, and I’m just about to cast my hand over the counter when the customer coughs, and I feel the record being put into my hand. “Thanks,” I say and slide my fingers over the record sleeve, feeling the familiar bumpy knobs of the braille on the label. “Attack and Releaseby The Black Keys. You’re in for a treat. It’s a great album. Track eleven is the best.”

“Oh, you’re blind,” she says bluntly.

I bite my lip to hide my smile because it was said in the tone of someone meeting Gwyneth Paltrow’s personality.

I nod. “Yes, I am,” I say, resisting the impulse to ask if she needs a gold star for the observation.

“I’m sorry I didn’t hand you the record.”

Her voice is nice, so I give her a smile. “Why? You weren’t to know. I don’t come with a warning label.”

She gives a high laugh. “I’m giving you my card now,” she says in a loud voice more suited to someone shouting across an empty field. She’ll never need to use a megaphone, that’s for sure.

If I had a pound for every time someone felt that the solution to knowing I’m blind is to shout so loudly they nearly puncture my eardrums, then I’d be living it up with twenty handsome pool boys in my villa in the Caribbean.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

I take the card and swipe it through the machine, the movements as familiar to me as cleaning my teeth.

“I love this shop,” she says, and I smile more naturally now.

“Thanks. Me too.”

“It’s been here years, hasn’t it? My dad says he came here for vinyl when he was a teenager.”

“Yeah, it’s been around since the nineties. My uncle owned it before me.”

“He was a proper character, wasn’t he? My dad says he used to wear a gold lamé trilby. They called him Pat the Hat.”

And his friends call him Pat the Twat. I smile at the thought of my eccentric uncle. “Yeah, he’s pretty epic.”

“And that new merch you’ve got is brilliant. I’m coming in on Saturday to buy some when I get paid. I want the tote bag and the water bottle.”

“Glad you like it.”

The designer was so fucking expensive that Raff had enquired if his designs were laced with gold, but it’s been worth it. The new sign for the shop is apparently epic, with a dancing sausage boogying away over a record and the word Bangers emblazoned on it. I’ve had tote bags, water bottles, mouse mats, and coffee cups made to sell. You name it, and I’ve slapped a logo on it. I think I’ll finally break even when I’m eighty.

She gives me a breezy goodbye, and I sit back at the counter, running my finger over the smooth surface. It’s an epoxy resin, and underneath it are vinyl records in funky colours. Pride of place is given to my uncle’s band, who, if you blinked and missed them, were famous in the nineties. He spent most of that decade smoking dope, drinking whisky sours, and nearly knocking people over with the draft from his denim overalls. Then he’d cut his losses and opened this record shop, where he became a London landmark as famous as Harrods but much more interesting.

My guide dog Hump gives a soft grunt, and I lower my hand to where he’s lying to the left of my stool, letting my fingers play with his silky ears.

Skindred’s “LOVE” is playing in the background, and I can feel the vibe of the shop surrounding me like a hug. I can’t see it anymore, but the interior is engraved on my mind—the old flagstone floors scuffed and marked by years of footfall, the red walls with iconic gig posters on them, and enormous black and white photos of my uncle with all the rock royalty from the eighties and nineties, the old wooden bins containing records.

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