“I’ve already put my products on your table—paying for two spaces is stupid,” my friend declared. So I called the organizer.
There was less than half an hour left before the city handmade fair opened. I walked up to the table I had paid for, number forty-two, and stopped in my tracks: half of the white tablecloth was already covered with neon-pink candles, golden pyramids, and little plaster angels. And standing in the middle of this unfamiliar display was my longtime friend, Oksana.
“Oh, Lenochka! I’ve already set everything up!” she announced. “I’ve put my products on your table already—paying for two spaces is stupid. Look how great it turned out!”
The day before, I had personally added Oksana to the list of helpers allowed in for the morning setup. She had promised to help me carry my boxes of ceramics. Security let those helpers into the pavilion together with the vendors. Oksana had arrived before me—but instead of helping, she had brought her own merchandise and managed to take over my space.
I’m fifty, and this was my first fair. I had registered the ceramics under my own name, paid for the vendor space, and spent several weeks preparing cobalt-glazed bowls, cups with fern impressions, and asymmetrical vases. Now Oksana had pushed some of my pieces into a corner and placed a card beside my best vase that read: “Candle Holder. Collaborative Collection.”
“Oksana, this is my registered space,” I said. “Take your things and your signs off my table right now.”
“Oh, Lenochka, don’t be so uptight!” she protested. “Who even wants your gloomy little pots? I’m saving your sales. We’re friends. What difference does it make whose name the table is under?”
Her merchandise was already creating confusion about who had made what, and if the organizers had any questions, I would be the one held responsible.
I didn’t bother explaining. I raised my hand and called over an organizer who was walking down the aisle.
“Excuse me, could you come over to table forty-two? We need to check the registration and the boundaries of the space.”
Oksana immediately tensed.
“Lena, seriously? You’re going to rat out your friend over a piece of plywood?”
“I’m calling the organizer to confirm the boundaries of my piece of plywood. And while we’re at it, I’d like to find out when my name started including the production of plaster angels.”
A young woman approached with a tablet.
“Good morning. What seems to be the problem?”
“Table forty-two. Elena. Ceramics. Could you please check who is registered for this space and what products are listed in the application?”
She quickly found the entry.
“Elena, handmade ceramics. One vendor space. Everything is correct. Candles and plaster decorations are not listed in the application. Only the products declared by the registered participant may be displayed on their table.”
Oksana immediately leaned forward.
“We’re doing a joint display! Fire and earth. I’m fire, Lena is earth. We just didn’t have time to register the collaboration.”
The organizer looked at the tablet again.
“Are you Oksana from the setup assistants list?”
“Yes. The brand is Aura of Light.”
“You’re listed only as Elena’s setup assistant. You are not registered as a vendor at this table.”
“That’s just a formality!” Oksana turned toward me. “Lena, tell her we’re doing this together.”
“We’re not,” I replied. “These products do not belong to me, and I never gave permission for them to be displayed in my space.”
Oksana sucked in a sharp breath.
“So that’s how it is! I come here with the best intentions, arrive at the crack of dawn, set everything up, and this is how she treats me… Who even needs you with your amateur crafts? You have a hobby. I have a business!”
“Funny how your business prefers to grow on territory I paid for, Oksana.”
I didn’t touch her candles or angels. Instead, I carefully took my vase, two cups, and several bowls out from under her display, placed them in an empty box behind the table, and removed the cards Oksana had put beside them.
“You can remove your things yourself. I’ve already separated mine.”
The organizer waited until Oksana stopped interrupting.
“You have two options. First, remove your merchandise from Elena’s table now and leave the exhibition area. Second, one space became available in the far section this morning. You can register for it at the front desk at today’s event-day rate and rent a standard table separately. If you want to sell, you’ll need to register as a participant.”
“At the event-day rate?” Oksana exclaimed. “That’s much more expensive than advance registration!”
“Yes. Advance registration ended yesterday. This is not a penalty; it is simply today’s applicable rate. The fair opens in ten minutes, so Elena’s table needs to be cleared now.”
Oksana turned toward me, clearly expecting me to give in. That had happened with her before: somehow the shared restaurant bill would end up becoming my responsibility, or tickets we had supposedly agreed to buy would suddenly become my problem. But this wasn’t just an inconvenience. This was the first time I was publicly presenting my own work.
“The floor seems to be getting colder by the minute, Oksana,” I said, looking at the boxes by her feet. “I’d hurry if I were you.”
“Choke on your precious table!” she snapped. “Let’s see how much you sell here without me.”
Oksana began packing the candles and figurines back into their boxes. There were five boxes of different sizes: two sturdy ones filled with candles, and three smaller ones containing plaster decorations and packaging materials. That morning, she had brought them in on a folding cart, which she had left against the wall. Now she loaded everything back onto it. In her rush, one plaster angel knocked into another and lost the edge of its wing.
While Oksana was packing, I noticed her homemade sign on my table: “Elena + Oksana.” I removed it and placed it on top of the nearest one of her boxes.
“This is yours too.”
A few minutes later, my table belonged entirely to me again. I arranged my ceramics exactly as I had planned: deep blue bowls closest to the aisle, cups in the center, and vases along the sides where they were less likely to be knocked over by someone’s bag. The fragile pieces stood securely without being crowded near the edge.
The pavilion doors opened, and the first visitors began coming in.
Almost immediately, a woman stopped at my table. She spent a long time examining the cobalt vase, gently running her fingers over the texture of the glaze.
“Where are those bright candles that were standing here this morning? I saw a photo of the setup on the fair’s page.”
“The candles found a table of their own,” I replied. “Today, everyone is staying within their registered boundaries.”
The woman laughed, looked over the vase once more, and bought it along with two cups.
Meanwhile, Oksana registered for the available space. It really was in the far section, near a service corridor, where there was noticeably less foot traffic. She was given an ordinary, fully functional folding table of standard size. Oksana arranged most of her merchandise on top of it and put the extra boxes underneath.
Near the service corridor, there was a constant draft, making the lightweight paper price tags flutter. Fine dust from packing cardboard and passing carts quickly settled on the smooth wax. Oksana didn’t light any candles; open flames were prohibited by the pavilion rules.
There were people around my table all morning. Some simply looked, some asked about the glaze and firing process, and several took business cards for custom orders. For the first time, I no longer felt like someone who simply had a shelf of pretty handmade things at home. I felt like a real participant in a real fair.
Closer to lunchtime, I walked past the far section. Oksana was rearranging her candles, trying to squeeze another box onto the table.
“Happy now?” she asked. “Because of you, I had to pay more, I’m stuck in the farthest corner, and half my merchandise is under the table!”
While trying to move one of the pyramids, Oksana hit a box with her elbow. The pyramid fell onto the concrete floor and chipped off its shiny tip.
“Looks like your attempt to save money ended up needing its own table after all,” I said. “Apparently that’s where it belonged.”
“Stay here. I need to step away. Watch my merchandise since you’re passing by anyway.”
“I’m here to sell my ceramics, Oksana, not take responsibility for someone else’s display. If you need to leave, ask an organizer.”
I went back to my table. Oksana didn’t approach me again for the rest of the fair.
By evening, my boxes were noticeably lighter. My sales covered the cost of participating, and I wrote down several orders for vases and sets of cups to make over the next few weeks. For my first fair, that was more than enough.
When I got home, I had barely taken off my jacket and sorted through the remaining business cards when my phone gave a short notification sound.
A message from Oksana:
“You ruined my entire day. I barely sold anything. If we’re being fair, you should reimburse me for half the cost of that space. If it weren’t for you, we could have sold normally. I’m waiting for the transfer.”
I read the message twice.
Then I tapped Block Contact.
There would be no money transfers, no shared tables, and no further negotiations.
Paying for two spaces really was stupid.
That was why, from now on, each of us would pay for our own.
