Nell: Terms, Conditions and a Suspicious Number of Ducks

Tamsin Soto read the project brief while eating cereal from a mug at my kitchen table.

“You've been professionally reunited,” she said.

“We're working together.”

“Yes. Professionally reunited. I used both words.”

Taz had been my friend since the year after Kit stopped being my friend. She knew the broad outline of what happened and had declined to take a permanent side, a position I considered morally admirable and personally inconvenient. She also knew I had once had a crush on Kit, because at fifteen I made the mistake of telling her while suffering from a fever. Taz maintained that the fever was only mild and I should take responsibility for my disclosures.

“It wasn't a crush,” I said before she brought it up.

“I hadn't said anything.”

“You were preparing.”

“I was eating cereal.”

My brother Ollie came in carrying a football boot and asked whether anyone had seen the other one. He was twelve and believed footwear should assemble itself near his feet when summoned.

“Have you looked in your room?” I asked.

“No, I thought I'd begin with public consultation.”

Mum called from the hall that she had found it behind the umbrella stand. Ollie left, apparently satisfied with the effectiveness of his method.

Taz returned to the brief.

“Twelve cheap things to do together. This is a date guide.”

“It's not specifically a date guide. It includes friends. Groups. People visiting alone.”

“So a date guide with disclaimers.”

“You're being unhelpful.”

“I'm being genre-aware.”

I took the paper back. The project needed a title, a structure and a realistic set of outings to test. Jo had suggested avoiding anything that required booking far in advance or spending more than a modest amount. Kit wanted photographs showing what the routes actually looked like, not only the flattering angle. I wanted enough personality that people would read it voluntarily rather than use it to stabilise a café table.

I had made a list. Kit had added comments. Some were useful. Some were the written equivalent of looking at me with one eyebrow raised.

Promenade picnic: weather dependent. Also gull dependent.

Harbour steps at sunset: forty-three steps.

Free cinema night: check dates, not just the poster from 2022.

Duck pond: why are there three pond-related suggestions?

The ducks were not the point. The point was that the pond was free, central and unlikely to demand proof of age.

Taz read over my shoulder.

“She has a point about the ducks.”

“I know.”

“Did you tell her?”

“I changed one suggestion.”

“Without admitting anything. Elegant.”

That afternoon, Kit met me in the library's small project room. Jo had given us access during agreed hours, provided we cleared the table afterwards and did not mistake the stationery cupboard for a personal inheritance. The room had a whiteboard, a large table, six chairs and a view of the bins behind the supermarket. It was not glamorous. It was ours twice a week.

Kit brought a notebook with thick cream pages. Mine had tabs.

“I've made a draft schedule,” I said.

“I saw.”

“It isn't compulsory.”

“The capital letters suggested otherwise.”

“I use capital letters for file clarity.”

“Of course.”

We sat opposite each other. For a few minutes, the conversation was almost entirely about practical things: hours, routes, costs, which places needed checking with the people who ran them. The usefulness of it made me relax enough to forget being careful.

“We should test each outing properly,” I said. “Not just go there and take a photograph.”

“Agreed.”

“So if it's a picnic, we bring food. If it's a route, we walk the whole thing. If it's somewhere to go with a person you don't know very well, we notice whether there's anything to talk about.”

Kit looked up.

“A person you don't know very well?”

“That's part of the brief.”

“It wasn't in Celia's version.”

“It should be. Not everyone has a group they can drag around a town.”

She considered that. “All right.”

We began building the twelve outings. A library-and-café route with a no-purchase alternative. The harbour walk. A picnic near the old bandstand. A second-hand-shop challenge with a strict small budget. The free cinema screening, if it still existed. A short bike route with a walking alternative. The evening market without the assumption that people would buy things. A quiet-space route. A rainy-day plan. A view of the town from somewhere that did not require forty-three steps, a number Kit wrote very firmly. A place to make something together. A final outing chosen by people we interviewed rather than by us.

“It needs different kinds of company,” Kit said. “Not every suggestion should involve talking the whole time.”

I wrote that down.

“And clear information about toilets, steps, shelter and getting home,” she added.

“Yes.”

“Actual information. Not accessible-ish.”

“I wasn't going to write accessible-ish.”

“You wrote charmingly uneven in your notes about the path.”

“That was sarcasm.”

“Good. Label the sarcasm where it might injure someone.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. Kit smiled, briefly. It changed her face in a way I had no practical reason to notice and noticed anyway.

We agreed on a shared document system. Major changes in comments first. Photographs stored with captions and permission notes where needed. Both names on the cover, the order alphabetical by surname unless we later developed a more entertaining system. Since Bishop came before Malik, I offered to alternate the order on different pages.

Kit shook her head.

“Both visible is enough.”

I looked at her. There was an old conversation in the room, sitting beside the new one. I could almost hear it breathing.

“I know,” I said.

She held my gaze for a moment, then looked back at the list.

“First outing?”

“Harbour walk. Thursday.”

“Forecast?”

“Acceptable.”

“That's not a weather condition.”

“It is in Marden.”

Jo came in near the end to check whether we needed anything. We showed her the structure. She asked sensible questions about the budget, reminded us to verify opening hours close to publication and approved the first few outings. Then she pointed to the blank space at the top of the plan.

“Title?”

I had written several. Most were bad. One sounded like a public-health campaign. Another resembled the name of a dating app designed by a council committee.

Kit took the pen from beside the whiteboard.

“What about just The Very Unofficial Guide to Marden?”

I looked at the words as she wrote them. The title sounded like us, which was a thought I had been trying not to use in any form.

“That could work,” I said.

“Try not to sound overwhelmed.”

“It works.”

She capped the pen. Jo smiled with the satisfaction of a person who had successfully placed two difficult books on the same shelf.

When Kit left, I stayed to straighten the papers. Jo leaned against the door frame.

“You could have warned me,” I said.

“Would you have come?”

“Probably not.”

“Then you see the difficulty.”

“That isn't a defence.”

“No,” Jo said. “It's an explanation. I thought you might both make something good. You still get to decide whether working together is worth it.”

I looked at the title on the board. Kit's handwriting leaned slightly to the right. Mine, beneath it, was square and careful.

For the moment, I did not erase either.