Page 75 of Short Stack 3

“The Wombles had a better grasp of English literature than you.”

I snort. “You’re not wrong, but you still got me through it.”

“Yes, I still remember your highly creative excuses for not doing your homework. My favourite was the death of your grandma.”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“Not considering that you appeared to have buried fifteen of them. You were either living in a cult or chronically unable to work outside the classroom.”

“I’d have been a good cult member — very bright and bubbly — but I’m afraid it was the latter.”

“By the time your class finished, I needed therapy, not a raise.” He proffers a white envelope.

I gape at him. “How the hell did Stan get you involved in this?”

He grins, and he’s so good-looking it makes me blink. “I collect vinyl. He sourced a rare Sex Pistols album for me.”

I shake my head. “That man. He should run the world.”

“He’s a good bloke. You go well together.” He hands me the envelope, and after I ask if I can use his back as a prop for reading the braille, he gestures at the nearby brick wall. “Use that. I’m not a pack animal.”

I snort as I open the envelope. “Fair enough.” I lean the paper against the wall and run my fingers over the braille. Then I look over at him. “I don’t suppose you have?—”

“Not yet. Stan promised I could listen to your wild stabs in the dark first.” His mouth twitches.

“He’s a hard man. Okay.” I frown. “I think this says to go to…” I pause, feeling fairly scandalised. “Erm, he’s saying go to the scene of a happy ending.” I consider where this might be. “To be honest, we’ve had happy endings in a lot of places. Stan needs to be more explicit in his instructions.” I grin at him. “This is actually rather erotic. How many of my old crushes are on this tour?”

He grimaces. “I’m glad I didn’t know I was a crush of yours.”

“Why? Would you have struggled with your feelings and ended up breaking the college rules before succumbing to a fit of conscience and dying alone in an attic?”

He blinks. “Nope. I’d have had to invest in more Valium.”

I laugh loudly. “Well, I’m afraid Stan’s gain is your loss. Now, where am I supposed to get my promised happy ending?”

He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and produces a familiar-looking paper. After he hands it to me, I read it quickly.

Not a happy ending like that. You have a one-track mind. Go to where we’re having our happily ever after. I’ll be waiting.

Happiness fills me like sunshine, and I smile. “Well, I suppose I’m going home.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “Nice to see you again. Tell Stan I’ll be expecting a crate of rare records if he ever wants this doing again.”

“You’re a very hot gold digger.”

I grin at his laughter and make my way back to the taxi.

“Home, James.” I wink at Nigel. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

The street is quiet when I get home. Saying goodbye to Nigel, I stand on the pavement for a few seconds, relishing the fact that I’m home. It’s dinnertime, and I can smell barbecues on the air. I smile at our neighbour as I walk up to our front door. Mrs Turner is deadheading a pot of geraniums with an air of ferocious concentration. “Evening,” I say. “How’s Petal doing?”

Her cat had kittens in our shed a few months ago. Hump had found them fascinating but learned very quickly to admire them from a distance.

“She’s fine, thanks, Raff. You look very smart.”

“Everyone should dress well for the supermarket. It’s important to keep up one’s sartorial standards.”

“And one’s degree of talking bollocks.” I laugh, and she grins at me. “These weddings keep you busy?”

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