Kit: Work We Had Agreed to Do

Nell arrived with the corrected article printed on ordinary paper. She put it beside me without asking whether I had seen it.

“I checked the live version this morning,” she said. “The headline, opening and role descriptions are changed. There's a correction note at the end. I've also asked the accounts that shared the original headline to use the revised one.”

“Thank you.”

“I know it doesn't fix the rest.”

I nodded.

Jo joined us with the project schedule. I had asked her to be there for the first part, not as a referee but because the work now needed a structure I could rely on without trusting every unrecorded conversation.

We agreed that publicity materials about the joint project needed both our approval. The guide already had that rule. We made it explicit for extracts, captions and descriptions of the work. Jo would keep the approved files in one folder. Celia could comment, but no one would label a version final because a deadline made waiting inconvenient.

Nell wrote the decisions down.

“Is there anything else?” Jo asked.

“Not for the work,” I said.

She looked at both of us, then left us with the route notes. She didn't ask whether we were still together. I was grateful, because I did not have an answer that fitted neatly inside a meeting.

We needed to test the cycle path along the old railway cutting. The published description had to distinguish the section suitable for a walk from the longer route that needed a bicycle and more time. Dad had checked Nell's borrowed bike. She had brought a helmet that made her look intensely unhappy.

“I think it shrinks when I'm not wearing it,” she said.

“Adjust the strap.”

“I have adjusted the strap.”

“That's the buckle.”

She let me show her, holding still while I moved the slider. It was a familiar kind of closeness and an unfamiliar absence inside it. I stepped back as soon as it was secure.

We rode slowly. The path left the busy road behind and passed gardens, a school playing field and a patch of scrub where someone had built an unofficial bench out of wood that did not look equal to the task. We didn't recommend the bench. Nell photographed it for our records and titled the image a vote of no confidence.

I laughed before I could decide whether laughing would be misread.

She smiled, then looked away. At least she did not act as though the laugh meant we were all right.

At the underpass, we stopped to check the surface. After rain, grit washed down from the slope. There was enough room for some people to turn, not enough to make broad promises about every cycle or mobility aid. We recorded the narrow point and the alternative crossing. It was less elegant than saying suitable for everyone. It was also more useful.

Halfway back, Nell's rear tyre began losing air.

She looked at it with weary recognition. “I knew this outing would eventually become a metaphor.”

“It's a puncture.”

“Let me have some dignity.”

I had a repair kit, but the cause was a fine piece of glass and the tyre needed a careful check. We moved off the path. Nell held the bicycle while I worked.

“You don't have to fix it,” she said.

“I know.”

“I can walk.”

“I know that too.”

I wasn't repairing the tyre to prove I was kind. I was repairing it because I knew how, we were halfway along a route we needed to finish, and making her struggle would not restore my name to the first article.

While I checked the tube, she read the instructions on the patch packet aloud in the voice of a person introducing a distinguished guest. It was funny. I asked her to hold the water bottle instead.

The repair held. We walked for a while before riding again, partly to check it and partly because the afternoon had become too quiet to hurry through.

“Can I ask where we are?” Nell said.

“On the old railway path.”

She gave me a small, painful smile. “Fair.”

I put one hand on the saddle.

“I still like you,” I said. “That hasn't conveniently stopped.”

“I still like you too.”

“But I don't want to be your girlfriend while I'm wondering whether every good thing I help make will become a story about how clever you are.”

She looked at the path.

“I understand.”

“I need some space from that part. We can finish the project. I want to finish it. But I don't want you to treat every afternoon we work well together as a step towards me saying yes again.”

The sentence sounded harsher aloud than it had in my head. It was still true.

Nell swallowed. “All right.”

“I don't know how long.”

“You don't have to give me a date.”

A family came towards us, and we moved aside to let them pass. The smallest child waved with both hands, nearly upsetting her own balance. Nell waved back. It was such an ordinary gesture that it made my throat hurt.

At the library, we wrote up the route. Nell added the repair-kit reminder and a clear note that a walking version did not require following the entire cycle route. She asked before changing one of my captions.

When we finished, she returned the spare fork from her bag.

“I found the one you didn't take,” she said. “We now have complete emotional support.”

I smiled despite myself.

She smiled too, carefully, then went home without trying to kiss me.