Nell: The Worst Available Partner

The first mistake was writing my complaint so well.

If I had written IT'S RUBBISH on the library feedback form, as my brother suggested, nobody would have invited me to a meeting about the official visitor guide. They would have filed it with the complaints about pigeons and the man who believed every computer was watching him personally. Instead, I used complete sentences. I gave examples. I attached a photograph of the map showing a public toilet that had been a candle shop for four years.

Now I was sitting in a room beneath a clock that had stopped at eleven seventeen, listening to a woman from the festival committee explain that constructive criticism was a gift.

She said gift in the tone people use when they are about to make you carry something heavy.

“Your observations were excellent, Nell.”

“Thank you.”

I sounded pleased. That was another mistake. I had been raised to accept compliments graciously, a training that repeatedly interfered with my ability to escape.

My complaint had been simple. Marden's official guide was written for adults with cars, money and an unusual interest in preserved roof beams. It described the promenade as a vibrant hub of activity without mentioning that most of the activities cost twelve pounds or involved being shouted at by a seagull. It recommended a restaurant that did not allow under-eighteens after seven. It listed the candle shop as a toilet. Anyone following it would become lost, poor or unwelcome, possibly all three in a single afternoon.

The committee woman, whose name was Celia Marsh, folded her hands on the table.

“We thought a youth-produced companion guide would be a wonderful addition to Open Town Week.”

Beside her, Jo Devlin from the library gave me a look I could not yet interpret. Jo had known me since I was small enough to believe the library stamp made books legally more interesting. She had also read my complaint before sending it to Celia. I was beginning to reconsider the depth of our friendship.

“A companion guide?” I said.

“Written by young people, for young people. Places to go. Things to do. Somewhere to spend time together without a large budget. We've got a small paid project fund and printing support.”

Paid improved the sentence considerably.

“I could do that,” I said.

I should mention that I was seventeen and trying to assemble a future from articles in the school paper, a folder of unfinished stories and the firm belief that knowing what was wrong with something was approximately the same as knowing how to make it right. A paid writing project sounded like evidence that the future had begun replying to my emails.

“Excellent,” Celia said. “And we've found someone to handle the visual side.”

The door opened behind me.

There are noises you recognise without turning round. Your own front door. A teacher saying your name while trying not to sound disappointed. In my case, the particular double tap of Kit Malik knocking on a door she had already opened.

“Sorry,” she said. “Bike chain.”

I looked at Jo. Jo looked at the clock, which remained committed to eleven seventeen.

Kit came in carrying a canvas bag with a roll of tape clipped to the strap. Her hair was shorter than when I last stood this close to her, dark and cut just beneath her ears. There was a faint streak of grease along the side of her hand. She wore a green shirt I recognised from seeing her across college, usually while deciding to look somewhere else.

She stopped when she saw me.

“Oh,” she said.

An eloquent summary of our shared position.

“Kit, you know Nell,” Celia said.

“Yes,” Kit replied.

No one could have accused her of overstating it.

We had known each other since we were eight. For six years, we knew each other's lunch preferences, parents' work schedules, handwriting, invented countries and private opinions about classmates who later became perfectly tolerable adults-in-training. Then a school competition happened, followed by several conversations that went badly and many conversations that did not happen at all.

For the past three years, we had maintained the kind of polite distance normally associated with neighbours disputing a fence.

Kit sat opposite me. She did not put her bag down until Celia began describing the project again, which suggested she was keeping open the possibility of departure.

“Why both of us?” I asked.

“Because your proposals complement each other,” Jo said.

“Proposals?”

Kit looked at me. “You sent a proposal?”

“A complaint.”

“So did I.”

We stared at each other.

“What was yours about?” I asked before remembering I was attempting to appear indifferent.

“The photographs,” she said. “And the walking route that sends people up forty-three steps without mentioning them.”

“Forty-one.”

“Forty-three. I counted.”

“So did I.”

Jo put a hand over her mouth. I suspected laughter and considered reporting her to an appropriate authority, if one existed above librarians.

“The two at the top don't count as separate steps,” I said.

“They require separate movements of your feet.”

Celia smiled with the optimism of someone who had mistaken an old argument for creative chemistry.

“This is exactly the level of detail we need.”

Jo took over before either of us could respond.

“Six weeks. A clear set of agreed hours. You keep the original work you make, and we'll agree what the library and festival can print. The main output is a short guide with twelve tested suggestions, not a book the size of a paving slab. We need a budget, a schedule and a way of checking practical information.”

I liked every word except we, which kept pointing inconveniently at Kit.

“Could we work separately?” I asked.

“You could divide tasks,” Jo said. “But both names go on the work, and you both approve the final version.”

Kit looked down at the table. The movement was small. I saw it anyway.

Celia slid two sample booklets towards us. Glossy covers, smiling people, a photograph of the promenade taken on the only day it had ever looked Mediterranean. I opened one. The first page contained the phrase memorable experiences for all ages.

“This needs to sound like someone actually lives here,” I said.

“Agreed,” Kit said before either of us remembered not to agree too readily.

I looked up. She was reading the same page in her copy.

“Also,” she added, “nobody's going to carry something this slippery in the rain.”

“Good point,” Jo said. “Would you both be willing to draft a plan for next week?”

Kit turned a ring on her finger. It was silver, plain, slightly too large. I remembered her making jewellery from the pull tabs of cans when we were eleven. This ring was not one of those, and I had no reason to feel disappointed by that.

“I can do the plan,” she said.

Everyone looked at me.

I could say no. I could leave the room with my dignity and my excellent complaint intact. I could spend the summer writing articles no one had asked for while Kit made something useful with another person who did not argue about stairs.

“I can do the plan,” I said.

Celia beamed. Jo looked relieved in a way I intended to discuss with her later.

Outside the meeting room, Kit finally put her bag down to tighten the strap. We stood beside a poster advertising a workshop on managing difficult conversations. The library had developed a cruel sense of placement.

“Six weeks,” I said.

“Yes.”

“We can be professional.”

Kit pulled the strap through the buckle.

“Can we?”

I had expected sarcasm. The question sounded more tired than that.

“Yes,” I said, less brightly. “We can.”

She looked at me, then nodded once.

“Send me your notes.”

“I've got a lot.”

“I remember.”

She picked up the bag and left before I could decide whether that was an insult, a compliment or simply a fact that still belonged to both of us.