Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

S tan

"I'll have this one, please."

The woman's voice jerks me from my daydreaming at the counter.

"Sorry," I say quickly and put out my hand. Nothing happens for a second, and I'm just about to cast my hand over the counter when the customer coughs, and I feel the record being put into my hand. "Thanks," I say and slide my fingers over the record sleeve, feeling the familiar bumpy knobs of the braille on the label. " Attack and Release by The Black Keys. You're in for a treat. It's a great album. Track eleven is the best."

"Oh, you're blind," she says bluntly.

I bite my lip to hide my smile because it was said in the tone of someone meeting Gwyneth Paltrow's personality.

I nod. "Yes, I am," I say, resisting the impulse to ask if she needs a gold star for the observation.

"I'm sorry I didn't hand you the record."

Her voice is nice, so I give her a smile. "Why? You weren't to know. I don't come with a warning label."

She gives a high laugh. "I'm giving you my card now," she says in a loud voice more suited to someone shouting across an empty field. She'll never need to use a megaphone, that's for sure.

If I had a pound for every time someone felt that the solution to knowing I'm blind is to shout so loudly they nearly puncture my eardrums, then I'd be living it up with twenty handsome pool boys in my villa in the Caribbean.

"Thanks," I mutter.

I take the card and swipe it through the machine, the movements as familiar to me as cleaning my teeth.

"I love this shop," she says, and I smile more naturally now.

"Thanks. Me too."

"It's been here years, hasn't it? My dad says he came here for vinyl when he was a teenager."

"Yeah, it's been around since the nineties. My uncle owned it before me."

"He was a proper character, wasn't he? My dad says he used to wear a gold lamé trilby. They called him Pat the Hat."

And his friends call him Pat the Twat. I smile at the thought of my eccentric uncle. "Yeah, he's pretty epic."

"And that new merch you've got is brilliant. I'm coming in on Saturday to buy some when I get paid. I want the tote bag and the water bottle."

"Glad you like it."

The designer was so fucking expensive that Raff had enquired if his designs were laced with gold, but it's been worth it. The new sign for the shop is apparently epic, with a dancing sausage boogying away over a record and the word Bangers emblazoned on it. I've had tote bags, water bottles, mouse mats, and coffee cups made to sell. You name it, and I've slapped a logo on it. I think I'll finally break even when I'm eighty.

She gives me a breezy goodbye, and I sit back at the counter, running my finger over the smooth surface. It's an epoxy resin, and underneath it are vinyl records in funky colours. Pride of place is given to my uncle's band, who, if you blinked and missed them, were famous in the nineties. He spent most of that decade smoking dope, drinking whisky sours, and nearly knocking people over with the draft from his denim overalls. Then he'd cut his losses and opened this record shop, where he became a London landmark as famous as Harrods but much more interesting.

My guide dog Hump gives a soft grunt, and I lower my hand to where he's lying to the left of my stool, letting my fingers play with his silky ears.

Skindred's "LOVE" is playing in the background, and I can feel the vibe of the shop surrounding me like a hug. I can't see it anymore, but the interior is engraved on my mind—the old flagstone floors scuffed and marked by years of footfall, the red walls with iconic gig posters on them, and enormous black and white photos of my uncle with all the rock royalty from the eighties and nineties, the old wooden bins containing records.

To my right at the back of the shop are three big old velvet sofas—one red, one purple, and one tartan. They belong to what my family called my uncle's Big Country phase, and I think the sofas' springs date back to the nineties, but everyone gathers on them, regardless, to talk and look at their purchases.

I hear the Old Gang break into one of their many arguments as if on cue. They're a group of older men who knew my uncle from the early days. They meet every Saturday to sit and chat. They're lively, overly opinionated, funny, and a link I treasure to my uncle.

"What are you arguing about now?" I call.

"The grunge era," someone says. I think it's Ira who owns the florists on the next street.

"What about it?"

"They're up in arms because I dared to say the Foo Fighters aren't that great."

"Isn't that heresy?" I say lightly. "Won't you be burnt on a stack of old buttoned-up cardigans and flannel shirts for saying that?"

"I said what I said," Might Be Ira says staunchly. "The Foo Fighters are one step up and a better mullet haircut from Nickelback."

"You have no taste," another member of the Old Gang cries.

I tut. "Isn't Dave Grohl the nicest man in rock? When you take his name in vain, I'm sure he turns up and barbecues for you."

"So? Edwin, who owns the bike shop, is nice. That doesn't mean I want to listen to him sing."

"Oh well, when you put it like that."

They laugh and fall back to arguing over Nirvana's best album. I can answer that. It's In Utero , which sounds more like a Pixies album than any of the ones the Pixies made for themselves. Not to mention the fact that the band set their trousers on fire to celebrate finishing the album. That sort of cheerful anarchy reminds me of my uncle.

Footsteps sound, and I inhale the scent of Kem's cologne. He's my shop manager and one of my closest friends. We've known each other since we were eighteen and worked in the shop at the weekends for my uncle. Pat was a quirky employer, more inclined to sit around and discuss music rather than teach us how to work the till. Luckily, when he'd sent Kem home with a joint in his pay packet, Kem's parents had taken it as a joke and handed it back very quickly.

"What's up?" I ask. "I thought you were updating the website."

"It's done. When you gave me the job title of website developer, I thought it would be really glamorous and would require me to wear pastel-coloured suits, espadrilles, and a ponytail. In reality, I seem to spend most of my day removing smart-arse comments and advertisements for penis extensions." His voice is one of my favourites—rich and warm with the lilt from his early years in Trinidad. "Anyway, I moved on to trying to get hold of Mrs Hannall's request list."

Kem also manages the website section that sells our stock and sources rare vinyl. We started it up during the pandemic when we couldn't open the shop, and to our astonishment, it grew in leaps and bounds so that it now forms more than half our income.

"Did you source Massive Attack's 100th Window album?"

"Only in Germany."

"Oh god, how much?" Germany is the source of a lot of rare vinyl, but since Brexit, we seem to pay more in taxes than a rock star's drug bills.

"One hundred and eighty quid," he announces as if expecting a drum roll.

"Fuck me. It'd be less expensive to pop over there, buy it ourselves, and then smuggle it back through customs."

"Sometimes it's very obvious that you're related to Pat." I chuckle, and Kem continues, "I called Mrs Hannall anyway. She's going to pay. It's the only one she hasn't got."

"That's good. I wouldn't mind getting a copy for the shop."

"News of great joy, Stan. More stock to vanish into the black hole of your flat, otherwise known as the land of I'll Just Take it Home for a Listen and Then We Can Sell It."

The bell gives its familiar chime as the door opens, and I hear rushed light footsteps.

"Uncle Stan, it's me Wolfie and Mummy."

"Hey, mate," I say, turning and stooping for Wolfie's usual hug. I feel his little arms come around my neck. He smells of baby shampoo and Play-Doh and gives me one of his special hugs. They used to be gentle, but now that he's six, it's more akin to being crushed by a small boa constrictor.

"Can't breathe," I gasp, and he chuckles before finally releasing me.

I take in a much-needed gasp of air as my sister says, "Sit down, Wolfie, before you break bones."

I collapse down onto my seat and hear Wolfie say, "Hello, Hump. Have you been a very good boy this morning?" His longing to pet the dog is tangible, but he knows very well that if his harness is on, it means Hump is working.

Fingers run through my hair. "This is getting really long, Stan," my sister says.

"I need to go and see Leo."

She tugs on a strand. "How is it that you got this beautiful head of curls and I didn't?"

"Well, someone had to rock the flat as a pancake hair, and you were it." She nudges me, and I laugh and rub my stubble. "This is getting a bit beardy, too." I open my arms. "Where's my hug, Lottie?"

She squeezes me and steps back. "You look nice."

I sit back on my stool. "Oh god, what does that mean?"

My sister gives a huff. "It means you look nice. God, you're suspicious."

I wave a casual hand. "It's fine. I just remembered I got Rafferty to oversee this outfit, so I know I'm okay."

"As opposed to some of the outfits you've overseen for yourself?"

I start to laugh. "Who can forget the day of the orange cords and an acid yellow jumper?"

"You looked like you were auditioning for CBeebies," my sister says callously.

"I thought you looked brill, Uncle Stan," Wolfie says, kind as ever, and I grin in his direction.

"Thanks, mate."

"I wouldn't listen to him," my sister interjects. "He was grumpy last week because he wasn't allowed to wear his wellies to the school disco."

"School disco? He's six . What do they do when they reach year five? A quick jaunt to Spearmint Rhino?"

She laughs, but my nephew immediately asks, "What's that?"

"Oh, erm, a nightclub," I say quickly before Kem gets the idea to answer.

"I should like to go where rhinos dance," Wolfie says sadly.

"They're vicious creatures," my sister offers.

"So's Stan, but you still hug him," Kem mutters.

"So, how was school?" I ask my nephew.

"It was good, Uncle Stan. I need to talk to you about something."

"Is it how to behave in the classroom? You've come to the right person."

"He really hasn't," my sister offers.

Wolfie continues. "I'm doing a project. We have to tell the class something special about our family."

"Oh yeah. You could do about your mum when she tied me to her toybox when I was irritating her and told me there was a train coming."

"I think that might give children a bad idea," Wolfie says seriously.

I nod. "Of course. So, what are you doing?"

"I want to talk to you about being blind."

I smile. "Really?"

"Yes, Uncle Stan. You're brilliant, and I want the other children to know how cool you are."

"Thanks, mate," I say, touched. "What do you want to know?"

"Let me get my list of questions."

"This is like Mastermind ," I observe.

"He's very prepared," my sister murmurs. "He needs a picture of you, so I'm going to give him that one from Boxing Day last year. You were extremely hungover and looked like you'd been lobotomised."

"Oh god, I remember that. Raff gave me one of his supposed hangover remedies, and I was sick in the punch bowl."

"Got them, Uncle Stan."

"Okay. I am ready . Shoot."

"Why is Hump called Hump?"

I chuckle. "He's named after Humphry Davy, who created the first electric light."

"So why did you call your guide dog that?"

"Because Hump is like my electric light. He sort of helps me to see in the dark."

"Do you think Hump could come to school and show the class?" He pauses and then adds quickly, "And you too, of course, Uncle Stan."

I snort. "Of course, and yes, we'll come. Just get mummy to give me a date. I can show the kids how Hump guides me."

"Epic." There's the sound of paper rustling. "Do you just see blackness like when Mummy turns my light off at night?"

"No, mate. I still see a tiny bit. Every blind person is different, though. There are variations over what they can see."

"What about you?"

"I have a very tiny percent of my vision left."

"Is that a lot?"

"Not really."

"What does that mean? What do you actually see?"

I try to think of how to convey that info so he'll understand. "Do you remember last Christmas when the fog came down and you were in the garden? You said you couldn't see anything except for blurry shapes."

"Was that just before I ate Nana's mince pies and was sick?"

"I think it's probably that you ate seven of them rather than being the fault of your grandmother's cooking. Well, that fog is what I see all the time. I can see light and shadows." I pause, considering the misty hues I see. "Sometimes it's worse," I add.

"Why?"

"If we sit in a room with low light, I might not see anything at all."

"So, what do you do?" His voice becomes concerned. "That fog was scary, Uncle Stan, and you're on your own in it. Aren't you frightened?"

"No, not at all," I say quickly. "And I have the lights to keep me company."

"What lights?"

I think of how best to describe it. "I often have lots of little lights flickering and moving, and they're pretty. Pink and purple and green. Flashing stars," I say in inspiration.

"You have stars in your eyes ? That's wicked. My class went to the planetarium and they showed us the night sky. We didn't end up seeing much because my friend Sammy stuck a rubber from the gift shop up his nose and got it stuck. He had to go to hospital."

"I can't wait to read this school project," my sister says dryly.

"Okay. I think I have everything I need for now," says the tiny David Dimbleby. "I think I should draw you now so the class can see what you look like."

"Make me handsome, please."

"Will do. Are my crayons still in your office?"

"In the drawer, I think. Kem?"

"Yeah, they're in there, Wolfie. There's also a big bag of chocolate buttons in there that Uncle Rafferty left."

"Epic," he says, and I hear him run off.

"How is it that Rafferty isn't the size of a house with that sweet tooth of his?" Lottie asks.

"Copious amounts of shagging," I offer. The thought of Rafferty and all his men gives me the usual pang, but I chuckle. "It keeps your figure very trim."

"No wonder he's slim then," Kem says. "He was at the Pink Parrot last night kissing one conquest goodbye and leaving with another all in the space of an hour."

"Fast worker," my sister says, a distinct note of admiration in her voice.

"Does he have a revolving door in your flat?" Kem asks.

I shrug. "He doesn't bring them home."

Something in my voice must alert them that I'm not fond of the topic, because my sister says hurriedly, "And how is Bennett?"

"He's fine." I add some enthusiasm to my voice. " Absolutely fine. He took me to a nice restaurant last night."

"Well, that's lovely," she says with more false cheer than Kate Middleton at a family reunion.

I smirk. "I know you don't like him."

"Nonsense. Complete tosh. He's a very nice man with many good…good qualities."

"Oh god," Kem mutters.

I rest my elbows on the counter and turn my head toward her. "Name one."

"Pardon?"

"Name a good quality that my boyfriend has."

"Erm." There's a silence, and I can practically hear the gears in her brain turning. "He's very invested in you," she finally says.

"That's all you've got?" Kem says in astonishment.

"And what does invested mean?" I add. "I'm not a savings account."

"Well, I just meant that you're his focus whenever he's with you, and he really looks after you, Stan."

"Ugh," Kem and I say in synch.

"You know I'm not a potted plant, don't you?" I clarify.

"If you were, you'd be a cactus," she mutters.

"Like I said, I know you don't like him."

"It's not that. I'm sure he's lovely. He's just a bit…"

"What?" I ask.

"Bossy," she finally says, and I'm sure her posture is slumping. "He's so bloody bossy ."

"He's not so bad."

"Gosh, Stan. You really must stop gushing," Kem says, his voice full of laughter.

I snort. "He's alright."

"For now," my sister offers. "While you're waiting."

I frown. "Waiting for what?"

"The coffee smells lovely today. I might get one," she says quickly. "Kem, do you want anything?"

"I'd love a latte."

"What about me?" I say crossly.

"You'll have a flat white like usual."

"And you said Bennett was bossy."

She laughs, and I listen to her footsteps tapping away. She's worn heels for most of her adult life, viewing flat shoes as an abomination. She even wears them with her pyjamas when she puts the bins out.

"The downside to having coffee here in the shop is that I now drink so much of the fucking stuff I have the sleeping habits of a startled bat," Kem says glumly. "It was obviously a good investment, though."

The cafe next door had come up for sale last year, and I'd bought it, got a liquor license, knocked through to the shop, and set up a brilliant barista. Now, during the day, people can browse records, sit and listen to music, drink coffee, and eat the cakes Kem's mum makes. At night, the small stage showcases local bands. All for a mortgage that I'll probably still be paying when I'm dead.

"Tell it to my bank manager and his grey hairs. He's only in his thirties, and Raff says he looks like Anderson Cooper already."

Kem laughs.

"Are you coming to the Refresho gig next week?" I ask him.

"They sound like a toilet cleaner brand. Is that the jazz-funk band?"

"Yeah, Raff and I went to their gig at the Palais last year. They're amazing."

"Yeah, I'll be there." He pauses. "Speak of the devil."

The door jingles, and I don't need my sight to know Raff has come in. Something about him registered on my bandwidth many years ago, and no matter how hard I try to tune into another frequency, my dial is stuck. He's lodged in my mind like a particularly catchy riff.

"Afternoon, my little record shop bitches."

His voice is beautiful with its soft Irish accent—well-modulated and warm. It has always had a lightness to it, an undercurrent of amusement at the world. It's my favourite voice in the world and never ceases to make me smile.

I try to picture his angular face—the long, wavy strawberry-blond hair, the sharp jaw and high cheekbones, and the full pouty mouth. He's frozen in my mind at the age of twenty like a fly trapped in amber, because that was the last time I could really see him. However, I don't need to experience Raff with all my senses. He's a part of me, and so I know him as well as I know myself.

"You don't look good, Raff," Kem says in an admiring tone.

I lift my head to stare at Raff's blurry form.

Raff huffs. "This is what tequila and bad choices look like, my friend."

I cock my head. "Didn't you have the Hollis wedding today?"

"Yeah, probably best not to mention that again. I have the hangover from hell at the moment, and in the future, I can look forward to a rather caustic session with Jed."

"That man can get caustic with me anytime." Kem's voice is lecherous.

"After five minutes, the causticity turns into simply being dreadfully opinionated," Raff says sourly.

"What happened? You didn't come home last night." I immediately want to pull the words back. They're way too sharp. "I mean, you like to be home before a wedding."

For all his lightness, joie de vivre, and casual attitude, Raff is actually laser-focused on his job and takes it very seriously.

There's a long pause, and then he says, "Yeah, well, things happen." His voice sounds flat and off, and I wonder what's wrong.

"I bet they do, you dirty hound," Kem observes.

Footsteps sound, and Raff says, "Lottie, you got me a coffee. Bless you."

"If I'd done that, it would mean I'd have been given foresight. And if that were the case, I would use it for something useful like knowing there was a flash sale today in Stella McCartney's shop. So I'd have been there rather than serving your hungover arse coffee."

"Ouch, harsh." The laughter is back in his voice. "But I'm more deserving of your attention than Stella's clothes. I give joy, and you're my sister."

"I am not. I'd have a lot more grey hairs if that were the case, and my brothers did enough of a number on my hair colour as it is."

She says something to Kem, and I feel someone come closer.

"You, okay?" Raff asks low. "You sound off."

As off as someone who lay next to his boyfriend last night torturing himself, wondering who Raff was with and if this would be the one who'd finally make him change all his life decisions? That's how pathetic I am—in love with my best friend who will never know if I have anything to do with it.

"Stan?" Raff says, and the worry is now clear in his voice. For all his casualness, there's a strong knightly streak in Raff. He's always trying to solve our friends' problems and spent most of our teenage years charging after me and coming to the rescue. He hates not being able to help.

I shake my head, feeling ashamed of myself for worrying him. It's not his fault I imprinted on him like a particularly stupid duckling and have never managed to shake it.

"I'm fine," I say, and I can almost feel him relax.

Taking in a much-needed breath, I inhale the familiar scent of his Initio cologne. It's a spicy, sweet blend of tobacco, vanilla, and rum, and its warmth is very Rafferty. For someone who's like a butterfly with his beauty products, moving from one to another and never looking back, he's remarkably loyal to his fragrance choices.

I feel his hand on my head brushing my hair back and push into the touch of those long elegant fingers.

He chuckles, and the lazy sound kindles a fire in my belly. "All these curls," he says, his voice hazy and affectionate. His fingers dig into the tense muscles on my neck, and I make an involuntary sound of pleasure, sparks fizzing at the base of my spine. His fingers tighten for a second, and then I can feel his body still, and his hand falls away.

I sigh and make myself smile. "My hair needs cutting. I'll ask Leo if he can fit me in."

"That's—" He stops and clears his throat. "That's good, Stan." His voice is slightly hoarse.

"What are you two talking about?" my sister asks.

"Stan's hair. He's going for a trim."

"Leo will need a whip and a chair to get that under control."

Raff laughs. "Where's Wolfie? Off running the country?"

"In my office writing his thesis on blindness," I say.

"Is he eating my chocolate buttons?" he asks, sounding way too panicked about sweets for a twenty-six-year-old man.

"Probably," I say maliciously. "Oh dear. It was the last bag, too."

"Wolfie," he bellows. "Get your paws off my chocolate."

I hear a little boy giggle and the sound of Raff moving away.

I smell Opium perfume, and my sister throws her arm over my shoulders. "God, that man moves well."

"Does he still move the same way?" My need to see Raff happens less and less as I get older, but the yearning can still occasionally hit me in the solar plexus.

Lottie knows. Somehow, she always knows. "Very quickly, but oh so graceful. He walks slightly on the balls of his feet, and it makes him look like he's dancing—easy and fluid," she says, giving me the image. I smile my thanks and she drops a kiss into my hair. "I wish you'd tell him," she whispers.

"Tell him what? That Spurs will never win the premiership? That would break his heart," I say lightly, and she huffs.

"Yeah, of course. Maybe this time you'd finally be on the same page," she says hesitantly. "You might be surprised by the answer, Stan."

"And maybe I wouldn't be, and that's almost worse."

There's a long pause. "It's your life," she finally says.

I give a long sigh. "It really is. And I have a nice boyfriend," I add very firmly but not terribly convincingly. "Even if he's a bit bossy."

There's a slightly long pause, and her voice has an undercurrent of worry when she speaks next. "I was speaking to a friend yesterday who knows Bennett's ex. He said to watch Bennett."

"Why?" I ask, startled.

"Apparently, everything has to be about him, and he hates to lose. His ex said he can be spiteful and it made their split very nasty."

"He's always been kind to me."

"He hates Raff."

"One of the rare times that Raff's charm has failed."

"Well, just watch out for him. Don't be so trusting."