I Owe You One: A Novel

Six

The party goes on, as it does every year. I know I should be helping Mum with the profiteroles. I know I should be clearing plates. But for once in my life I’m thinking: Let Nicole do it. Let Jake do it. Let anyone else do it. Because Ryan wants to talk to me, and that sweeps everything else away.

We’re alone in the tiny back room overlooking the garden. It’s stuffed with furniture that we moved out of the sitting room for the party—we’re sitting on the floor awkwardly between two sofas—but I don’t think either of us cares. We’re transfixed, in our own private bubble. Ryan has been talking for about an hour and I’ve been listening in a state of shock, because he’s not saying anything I expected.

Every other time Ryan has come home, all we’ve heard about L.A. is the glamour. The excitement. The celebrities. But now he’s telling me real stuff. Painful stuff. He doesn’t look like old Ryan; he looks battered. World-weary. Kind of like he’s had it.

And the more he talks, the more I realize what he’s telling me is: He has had it. He’s done with L.A. I have no idea how he can have sunk so quickly from “My best friend is Tom Cruise” to this place, but the way he’s talking now, he never wants to see L.A. again.

“Everyone there is two-faced,” he keeps saying. “Every single bastard.”

I haven’t quite followed his tale of woe—there are two people in it called Aaron, which doesn’t help—but what I’ve picked up is that he went into business with a couple of guys, but nobody did what they’d promised to, and now he’s out of money.

“You burn through the stuff,” he says bleakly. “Everyone wants to discuss work over Japanese food or on a boat. The one-upmanship. It’s insane.”

“But when you say, ‘out of money,’ ” I venture, tentatively, “you don’t mean …”

“I’m out, Fixie.” He spreads his hands. “Broke. Nowhere to live, even.”

“Shit,” I breathe out.

There’s a nasty feeling in my stomach. How can Ryan Chalker be broke? I’m remembering him and Jake, aged seventeen, riding around in that convertible. He had money. He had it. How can you just lose it all?

“So, what will you … where …”

“I’m staying with Jake right now. Your brother’s great. But then …” He shakes his head and his blond waves glimmer in the evening sun. “It’s hard. When you had a dream and you tried your utmost best and it didn’t work out.”

“I know,” I say fervently. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Hearing all this is bringing back painful stabbings in my heart. I’m remembering my pile of dark-green aprons under the bed. I’m remembering the drenching mortification of failure.

“I’ve had exactly the same experience,” I say, staring at the carpet. “You know I started that catering business? I did a load of work for this married couple called the Smithsons. They had a PR agency and they threw all these dinners for their clients, but they never paid me, and suddenly I was in debt and it was …” I try to compose myself. “I’d bought top-class organic filet steak, and I’d paid my staff, and they’d eaten it all, but I never got any money out of them.…”

Despite my best efforts, my voice is wobbling. I don’t often talk about the Smithsons, because it makes me feel like such a fool. Even worse, it makes me feel ashamed, because I didn’t listen to Mum. She knows about small businesses, she knows the risks, and she tried to warn me. She tried to ask me practical questions about invoicing and cash flow. But I so desperately wanted everything to be great that I glossed over the answers.

I’ll never make that mistake again. I’ll never gloss; I’ll never cross my fingers and hope; I’ll never do business based on sweet talk and promises and handshakes. If anything good came out of the whole thing, it’s that I learned. I became more savvy.

“There were other issues too.” I exhale. “It was a bad financial climate. I pitched too high-end. It was harder to crack the market than I realized. But the Smithsons didn’t help.”

“Didn’t you sue?” says Ryan, looking interested. “Could you get some money out of them now?”

I shake my head. “They went bankrupt.”

It was like the last toxic ace up their sleeve. After they’d ignored all my invoices, all my emails, even my visits in person to their office, they filed for bankruptcy. I’m in a list of creditors on a computer somewhere. And I couldn’t afford to carry on. I couldn’t get any more credit and I definitely wasn’t turning to Mum again. Farr’s Food was over.

That’s when I made the decision to channel all my energies into the shop instead. Because I do love it and it’s our family legacy and it plays to my strengths. I even sometimes use my chef training when I advise customers on cooking products. And if I ever think wistfully about my catering dreams, then I remind myself: I had my chance.

“No one understands except people who have been through it,” I say. “No one.”

“Exactly.” Ryan’s eyes burn intently into mine. “They don’t get it. Fixie, you’re like the only person who understands properly.”

My heart swoops inside—I’m the only person who understands Ryan?–but somehow I manage not to melt.

“I broke up with my girlfriend,” he adds abruptly. “You find out about people.” He rubs his face, as though trying to rid himself of memories. “I tried so hard. I wanted to talk it through.… But girls like that, they’re shallow. It’s not about who you are as a person; it’s about what can you do for them? How much can you spend on them? How can you help their career? As soon as she realized I was in trouble”—he clicks his fingers—“it was over.”

“She sounds awful!” I say hotly, and he shoots me a grateful half smile.

“So … what now?” I ask. “What are you going to do?”

“God knows. But it’s got to be something different, you know?” says Ryan emphatically. “No more fucking smoke and mirrors. Real people. Real work. Roll up my sleeves and get on with it.”

“You could do anything!” I say. “The experience you’ve had … it’s amazing!”

Ryan shrugs. “Well, I know my shit, let’s say that.”

“So you just have to choose what to do,” I offer encouragingly. “Find a new line of work. I mean, I suppose you might need to go down a few rungs on the ladder to begin with …”

“Of course.” Ryan smiles wryly. “I can’t expect to go in at CEO level.” He gazes into the distance for a few moments, then adds in a low voice, “If I’ve learned one thing from all this, Fixie, it’s how to be humble.”

I feel yet another huge wash of affection for him. He’s the same as me. Chastened and pounded by experience … but not beaten. Never beaten.

“Good for you,” I say in heartfelt tones. “It’s really brave, to start again. I know exactly how you feel.”

I sip my drink, trying to think of career options for Ryan and surreptitiously checking out his pumped-up shoulders. If he looked good last year, he looks phenomenal this year. His arms are huge and muscled. His skin is smooth. He looks like an advert for healthy L.A. living.

“So what next?” I venture. “And is there anything I can do to help?”

“Just talking to you helps.” Ryan raises his blue eyes to mine, and my stomach squeezes a little. “I guess my next move is, contact some headhunters.”

“Headhunters!” I seize on the word. “Of course. Oh my God, they’ll love you. I mean, you’ve dealt with huge Hollywood companies. You could do anything! They’d be lucky to have you!”

“Oh, Fixie.” Ryan surveys me, his eyes crinkling up in a wry smile. “You make a guy feel good, you know that?”

“Well,” I say breathlessly. “It’s just what I think.”

I’m half-hoping Ryan will lean forward and kiss me, but he doesn’t; he stands up and turns toward the dresser laden with trophies. We hardly ever use this room, so I’ve got used to the trophies being ignored. Disregarded by everyone except Mum. But now Ryan’s studying each one with fascination.

“I’d forgotten about your ice-skating,” he says. “That must have been a big dream for you too. What happened there?”

“Oh, that.” I feel a familiar painful twinge. “God. Whatever. Didn’t work out.” I get to my feet too, and reluctantly follow his gaze.

“But, look! You were good. I never knew why you gave up.” He’s picked up a framed photo of me in an aquamarine skating dress, aged thirteen, one leg held above my head as I glide across the ice.

“Oh, just lost interest, I suppose,” I say with a feeble smile, and look away.

Seeing that photo brings back a rush of bad feelings, because that was the day it all changed. I’d practiced my junior free program for months. The whole family had come to watch, to cheer me on.

If I close my eyes, I’m back at the rink again, the place that felt like home for so many years. I can recall the crisp chilled air. The silky finish of my outfit. And Jake, in a filthy mood, standing mutinously as Mum fussed around me and took photos. He was angry because Mum had found him secretly drinking in his room and stopped his allowance. And he took it out on me. When he came over to me, I thought he was going to say, “Good luck.” I was totally unprepared for what happened.

“How many hours?” he said into my ear. “How many fucking hours have I sat and watched you slide around? Mum’s obsessed, Dad goes along with it, but what about me and Nicole? You’ve ruined our lives, you know that?”

And before I could even draw breath, he walked off, leaving me trembling in shock.

I could blame him for my fall that day. I could say he put me off. And there would be some truth in it. As I skated out onto the ice, my legs were quivering. I’d never, not once, seen my skating as anything but positive. I’d always thought Jake and Nicole were proud of me. Just like Mum always told me they were.

But now Jake’s point of view was all I could see. Mum’s attention sucked up. Money spent on lessons and costumes. All the spotlight focused on me. It was all painfully clear. So I was off my game, not concentrating, and I fell. Badly.

Afterward, everyone told me not to worry—never mind, you nailed the jump in practice, and you’ll nail it again next time. My heart wasn’t in it, though. I gave up skating completely within three months, despite my coach, Jimmy, trying to talk me back into it.

I can’t only blame Jake. It was me. My personality. The best skaters are natural performers. They see the audience and blossom. They wouldn’t care if their brother was jealous—it’d spur them on. They’d approach their jumps thinking, Fuck you! and reach even greater heights. After Jake landed his bombshell on me, I approached every jump thinking, I’m sorry.

The trouble is, I’m sorry doesn’t power anything. It drags you down. By the end, I could barely get my feet off the ice.

“Do you still skate?” asks Ryan, and I flinch before I can stop myself.

“No,” I say flatly, then realize I sound too abrupt. “I went back to it in my year off,” I amend. “I didn’t compete or anything; I qualified as a skating coach and taught beginners.”

“I expect you’re sick of ice rinks.” He laughs.

“Yes,” I agree, although it isn’t true. I still love ice rinks. I go to Somerset House every year when they put on the skating. I watch all the people swishing round the ice—or falling, most of them—and I love the sight. I just don’t need to join in.

I take the photo from Ryan’s hand and cast around for a new subject—but before I can think of one, Jake strides in, holding a beer. “Here you are!” he says, almost accusingly.

“Have you been helping out Mum?” I ask, but Jake ignores me. He sees the photo in my hand and rolls his eyes.

“Showing off your past glories, Fixie? You should have seen her fall on her bum,” he adds to Ryan with a bark of laughter. “Classic. Wish I’d recorded it.”

“I don’t believe it,” says Ryan, twinkling at me. “I bet you never fell on your bum.”

Silently, I put the photo back on the dresser. I’ve never mentioned that day to Jake. We’ve never revisited that conversation. Does he even know what an impact he had on me?

Anyway. You move on.

“Hey!” I say, as a new idea seizes me. “Ryan, you could work at the shop with us for a bit. Learn the retail trade. We could teach you everything! And then you could move on to something, you know, bigger.”

I’m trying to sound as though this is simply a reasonable career suggestion, although my heart has seized up in delirious hope. It’s the perfect solution! I’d see him every day … he’d feel like part of the family …

“Ah, I’m not sure about that.” Ryan wrinkles his suntanned nose. “Might be awkward, working for you guys. Jake, mate, didn’t you bring me a beer?”

I force myself to keep smiling, determined he won’t see my disappointment. Why would he think it would be awkward? It wouldn’t be awkward! But there’s no point pressing the idea. If he doesn’t want to work at the shop, he doesn’t.

“Have you been helping Mum?” I ask Jake again. “Or has Nicole?”

“Jeez, Fixie.” He rolls his eyes. “Get off my case. I haven’t even seen Mum.”

Now that Jake is in here, the magical, transfixing bubble we were in has burst. And suddenly I feel guilty. I’ve dodged all the work. I’ve forgotten about the party. I’ve forgotten about everything except Ryan and me.

“I’ll go and see if Mum needs anything,” I say. “You know what she’s like. She’ll be back in the kitchen.”

I’m not being totally noble here. I’m feeling the need of Mum’s calming presence. Jake unnerves me, and I was already unnerved enough by Ryan. I need an injection of Mum’s calm, loving, steadying voice. I want her to say something that makes me smile, so I can take a step back from life and see it all in perspective.

I head out and glance into the sitting room, where all the guests have given up standing. They’re perched all over, on chairs and even the floor, chatting and smoking and still nibbling food. But sure enough, Mum isn’t anywhere to be seen. I knew it.

“Mum?” I call, as I stride down the corridor toward the back of the house. “Mum, are you there?”

I see a familiar flash of blue linen through the open kitchen door, but it’s in the wrong place somehow. I pick up speed, frowning as my brain tries to process the sight. There’s something not right, but I can’t work out—

“Mum?” I push the door right open—and my heart freezes in horror.

Mum is collapsed over the table, motionless. Her piping bag is still in her hand; her straggly hair is all over her face. “Mum?” My voice is strangled in alarm. “Mum?”

I push her shoulder gently but she doesn’t respond—and now terror is ripping through my guts.

“Mum? Help!” I yell through the door, frantically patting her cheeks, trying to work out if she’s even breathing. I can’t feel a pulse, but then, I don’t know how to feel for a pulse; I should have done first-aid lessons …

“Mum, please wake up, please.… Help! Someone please HELP!” I yell again, my voice hoarse, tears of fright springing from my eyes. “HELP!”

Footsteps are thudding along the corridor. I grab for my phone with fumbling, panicky fingers, feeling totally surreal. I’ve never dialed 999 in my life and I’ve always wondered what it must feel like. Now I know. It’s the scariest thing in the world.