Page 39 of Something Borrowed

My sales assistant Lennon’s voice disturbs my trip down sexy memory lane, and I jump guiltily. “Sorry, what?”

“You alright? You’re a bit flushed.”

I’m fervently glad the desk covers my lap. I clear my throat. “I’m fine. Did you need something?”

“The window display is done.”

I focus my attention on the lad who started here in a Saturday job but who displays all the same sticking tendencies as Kem and myself. He’s passionate about music and has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the seventies which is ironic for someone whose parents probably weren’t even born then. He’s also preternaturally laid-back, which could be due to the copious amounts of dope he consumes. I always know where he is in the shop because he smells like a coffee shop in Amsterdam.

“Oh, good job, mate. Thank you. What is it this week?”

“I did a rockers window with album covers for bands like Black Sabbath and Motörhead. The background is red, and I included that sixties record player you got at the garage sale last week. My mate made bats from some old vinyl, and they’re flying out of the record player. It’s not bad.”

“Well, it sounds absolutely amazing.”

“It is,” Kem’s voice says. There’s a rustle of clothing, and then I hear the desk creak as he sits down on it. It’s his favourite spot. “You’re brilliant, Lennon.”

“Ta. I’ve also been thinking that maybe we should have our own music awards.”

“Don’t they call those the Brits?” I say idly.

“They’re so bloody lame.” Lennon’s voice is rich with disgust. “I watched it last week, and I was bored off my tits.”

“They didn’t use to be,” Kem says.

I chuckle. “Yeah, tell that to Michael Jackson and Jarvis Cocker’s cardi.”

“What?” Lennon asks.

“Long story. Look it up on YouTube. It used to be Pat’s favourite video. He made me watch it when he babysat me and Lottie, and he laughed every time. Suffice to say the Brits used to be a lot more fun—sort of like me and Kem.”

Kem huffs. “Speak for yourself. Kem is stillplentyof fun.”

“And still managing to talk about himself in the third person in a very creepy way.”

“Maybe we could do our own awards voted by the customers,” Lennon continues doggedly.

I try hard to look in his direction as he talks. It takes more effort than it used to. As my vision deteriorates more, my desire to behave as though I’m still sighted also diminishes. It used to be easy to fake sight and focus on whoever was talking to me, but those days are long gone. I sometimes can’t help thinking—why should I try so hard? It’s not my job to make a non-disabled person comfortable with my own fucking blindness.

I realise that Lennon’s still talking, and I jerk to attention.

“We could leave cards around for the customers to fill in and then feature the winners on the display.”

“That’s a good idea,” I tap my desk idly. “Kem’s been looking at a college course on window displays. Would you like to go on that, Lennon?”

There’s a startled silence. “But I’d still be working here?” he asks in a worried tone.

“Of course,” I say immediately. “God, I don’t want to lose you.” I can almost feel him relax, so I continue. “It would give you more choices, though. Kem says you’re brilliant and very creative. And maybe one day, you’ll want to spread your wings.”

“I doubt it,” he says firmly. “I like being here. But yeah, I’d love to do that.” There’s a short pause. “I hope there’s not too much homework though, Stan. I was never good at that in school.”

“Minimal,” Kem says immediately. “It’s mostly practical, and you can practise what you learn in the shop. They come out and assess it.”

I snort. “Maybe make that on a day when old Reggie isn’t ranting about how Stock, Aitken, and Waterman were worse than Satan.”

We all laugh, and then Lennon says, “I’d really like that. Maybe I could take on the displays in the cafe, too.”

“Absolutely,” I say immediately and with feeling. “Have at it.”

---