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not a real one. It’s one of the polyurethane ones they use in classrooms. I wanted to have a practice go before using a real skeleton.”
    “A real skeleton?” Now Mas was giving him a look of pure horror. “Where would you get one of those from?”
    “Not from a living breathing human, if that’s what you’re wondering. But you can buy old ones occasionally at auction. Old wired-up ones hanging from stands. They’re really in demand, but I did manage to find one once in an old attic.”
    “Christ on a bike, that must have been one creepy attic. Who the hell keeps skeletons in theirs? I think all we had in ours when I was a nipper were a few boxes of Christmas decorations.”
    “This was in a stately home. There were generations’ worth of people’s things in there. Old clothes. Suitcases. Photographs.” Photographs of Perry’s ancestors, mainly, but he wasn’t about to reveal that.
    “So is that how you stocked your shop? Stuff from some old mansion? What, were they auctioning it off on the cheap, then?”
    Perry inclined his head to one side. Let Mas draw whatever conclusions he wanted from that.
    “Cool. So it’s all posh stuff you’ve got down there, then. Shame you keep it all in such a mess. You could have a proper vintage boutique if you wanted.”
    “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
    “You’ve just got to merchandise better. And clear out a load of stuff so people can actually see what you’ve got. Less is more, you know.”
    The idea of having a clear-out made Perry’s limbs heavy. “There’s too much. It would take me months.” Although what would happen if his business failed was anyone’s guess. What if it all got chucked into a skip? The very thought gave Perry palpitations.
    “Get your friends to help you.”
    “Umm, I suppose.” But who exactly would he count as a friend? His regular customers? Denys was pretty friendly, but it wasn’t like they went out for coffee together or anything. There was old Mr. Conrad at the bookshop, who often stopped in to chat to when passing, but he was in his seventies. He could hardly ask him. And as for Cherise—well, she’d definitely tell him where to get off. Besides, they’d probably rush him. Best he handled things at his own, glacial pace.
    “I wouldn’t want to put anyone out.”
    He was sure his lack of friends must have been painfully obvious, but fortunately Mas had been sidetracked by Albert again. “This thing is amazing, you know. Is this what you do with yourself, then, rather than man your shop? You make creepy sculptures?”
    “They’re not all creepy.” His carp certainly wasn’t. “The chickens aren’t.”
    Mas’s eyes widened. “You made them too? Wow, you’ve really got a talent, you know that?”
    Perry shrugged in response. “It keeps me busy.”
    “So you sell many?”
    “Not many.”
    “Have you got a website or anything?”
    “No.”
    “A Flickr stream? An Instagram account? A Tumblr? A fucking Facebook page?”
    Perry kept shaking his head. He didn’t know what half the words Mas was spouting actually meant, although he was sure he’d heard some of his customers mention them.
    “Well then, how do you market them?”
    “Market?”
    “You know. How do you let the people out there with money to waste know that you’ve got all these kick-arse sculptures looking for new homes?”
    Perry gave an apologetic smile and twitched his shoulders. See, this was why he kept people at arm’s length. They wouldn’t let you get away with vagueness. Some of them wouldn’t, anyway.
    Mas had his hands on his hips and was staring at Perry like he was a puzzle that needed solving. “Have you ever actually sold one?”
    “No.” One-word answers. He could probably do this conversation if Mas stuck to questions that only needed a yes, no or maybe.
    “Do you actually want to sell them?”
    “Yes.” The best bit was making them, not holding on to them.
    “But you don’t actually want to do any