I Owe You One: A Novel

Eleven

Uncle Ned has booked a table at a restaurant for our meeting. It’s a place called Rules, in Covent Garden, all red plush and dark wood and food like oysters and venison. As I read the menu, I can’t help gasping inwardly at the prices.

“Wow,” I say. “This is quite … grand. We normally have meetings at the shop and Mum brings sandwiches.”

“Your mother likes to play things down,” says Uncle Ned kindly. “It’s her little affectation. But what I say is: If you mean business, then mean business.” He lifts his gin and tonic in a toasting gesture.

“Right,” I say, after a pause, because I don’t want to start the evening off by arguing. But I don’t get it at all. Why have we come to some luxury restaurant just to talk about the shop? My motto would be: If you mean business, then spend your money on the business, not on expensive meals.

Jake and Nicole seem happy enough, though, ordering pâté and even lobster. When we’ve all ordered, Uncle Ned clears his throat in a grandiose way and says, “Before we begin on this little joint endeavor, please be assured, I am merely here to facilitate. Facilitate, d’you see?” He looks around with slightly bloodshot eyes. “You won’t want to listen to an old buffer like me. That’s understood. I’m simply here to make sure you don’t run the ship aground. Oh, the Chablis, I think,” he adds to the wine waiter, then turns to Jake. “By the way, I take it you have a company credit card on you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” says Jake at once. “I’ll sort it out. All on the company.”

“Good lad,” says Uncle Ned, taking a gulp of his gin and tonic. “Good lad. Now, as I say, I’m here to help. To listen. To advise.”

To drink gin at our expense, I think, but then immediately feel bad. Mum trusts Uncle Ned, so I should really try to as well. He negotiated the lease, I remind myself. He must have a good business head. Be open-minded.

“Right, well, why don’t I start?” says Jake briskly. “I have a lot of ideas for the shop.”

“I have a lot of ideas too,” chimes in Nicole at once. “Loads.”

“I mean, it can’t stay as it is,” adds Jake.

“Definitely not,” affirms Nicole.

I look at them both, disconcerted. Does the shop need changing that much? It’s a healthy business. Mum left us in charge to run it, not to transform it.

“I don’t have that many ideas,” I say. “I mean, I have a few.”

“Well, let’s listen to your few, Fixie,” says Uncle Ned in generous tones. “Get those out of the way, as it were.”

Out of the way? He sounds so patronizing I want to retort, “One good idea is worth a hundred bad ones!” Or at least blow him away with a really impressive speech.

But it’s happening to me again. The sight of Jake rolling his eyes at Nicole is sapping my confidence. The ravens are flapping. My lips are trembling. As I open my mouth, my lungs seem to be working at half capacity. My voice is tiny and uncertain.

“I think we could streamline the stock. Maybe get rid of the leisure section?” I add hesitantly. “And confectionery. We only stock licorice allsorts. It makes no sense.”

“Dad and I were the only ones who ever liked licorice allsorts,” muses Nicole. “He always used to say …”

I wait to see if Nicole is going to continue. Then, as it’s plain that she’s not, I take a deep breath and resume.

“I think we could lose hardware too. I know Dad loved all those sections, but they’re looking out of date and they’re the poorest performers. I think we should focus on kitchenware and craft. The customers love gadgets; they love advising each other and sharing their results. And everyone knows they can trust Farrs. We could make that our message: You can trust Farrs.”

My confidence is building as I talk; my voice is growing stronger. I’m actually enjoying sharing my thoughts.

“You know Vanessa, the customer who wears the red mac?” I continue. “Well, she recently won some big baking competition, and all her equipment was from Farrs. She came straight round to tell Mum. It was brilliant! And baking is a growing market. I have some figures, if you want to look.…” I get out the page of research I printed out last night and put it on the table. “I think we can capitalize on this, but we need to stay on top of it. We need to follow all the TV cookery shows. Offer exactly the right equipment at the right time. And the stock should be refreshed more often. Some products sit on our shelves for years. We’ve got to stop that.”

I’m hoping some of these ideas might spark some comment—but no one says a word or looks at my research.

“Anyway,” I continue, undeterred, “I think we should focus on our core business and build on all the best qualities of Farrs: Trustworthiness. Value. Practical help. All the things that Dad cared about. All the things that Mum is. All the things that we are.”

I look around the table, hoping I’ll see the warmth I feel mirrored in my siblings’ faces. Maybe we could even lift a glass to our parents. But Jake is frowning and Nicole looks lost in a daydream.

“Finished?” says Jake, as soon as I come to a halt.

“Well … yes,” I say. “What do you think?”

“Honestly?” says Jake.

“Yes, honestly.”

“I think, jeez, this is exactly the problem.” He slaps a hand onto the table. “Could you think any smaller? Could you be any more parochial? Vanessa in her bloody red mac, for fuck’s sake.” He shakes his head incredulously. “We need aspiration. High-end. Strategic partnerships with big brands.”

“We already stock big brands,” I point out.

“What, ‘Cake-tins-for-old-biddies-dot-com’?” says Jake scornfully. “I’m talking lifestyle. I’m talking luxury. The whole place needs a bloody reboot. Now, I met a guy at Ascot last year, works for Hannay watches. I got his card. He’s someone we could do business with. I mean, we’d have to pull out all the stops to get the deal.…”

“Hannay watches?” I say disbelievingly. “Are you joking? Don’t they cost like a thousand pounds?”

“We sell clocks,” retorts Jake. “It’s a natural extension.” He turns to Uncle Ned. “You wouldn’t believe the margins.”

“Jake, we sell kitchen clocks,” I try to point out. “None of them is above the thirty-pound price point.”

But Jake isn’t listening; he’s pulling a brochure out of his briefcase.

“Here’s another guy I’ve been sweet-talking recently,” he says. “Comes from Prague. We’ve had a few dinners, went to the casino the other night.”

“Work hard, play hard, eh?” puts in Uncle Ned with a chuckle.

My mouth has fallen open a little. The casino? When Mum and I source new suppliers, it’s at trade fairs or over coffee in the back room. Not at casinos.

“Anyway, he owns a stationery company,” says Jake importantly. “High-end. Gilt-edged. Wonderful. I think if we did the right deal, we could become his exclusive West London stockist.”

“Good work!” applauds Uncle Ned. “It’s all about networking, eh, Jake?”

I flip through the brochure, trying not to flinch. This is the weirdest stationery I’ve ever seen. There’s a lot of gilt and bizarre colors and cards decorated with malevolent-looking mermaids. I can’t see a single one of our customers wanting to buy this stuff.

“Jake,” I say. “Our customers like jolly cards with jokes on them. Or Cath Kidston notecards. They’re practical, sensible—”

“Exactly!” he erupts in frustration. “That’s the problem!”

“Our customers are the problem?” I stare at him.

“London is full of glamorous, rich, international spenders,” Jake says, almost fiercely. “Financiers. Lawyers. Hedgies. Why aren’t they in Farrs?”

“Actually, Vanessa’s a High Court judge,” I tell him—but he’s not listening.

“We need to move with the times,” he says tetchily. “London is the city of the international playboy. That’s who we need to attract.”

International playboys?

I don’t know what to say. I have a sudden vision of a line of international playboys in Dolce & Gabbana suits browsing our saucepans, and I bite my lip.

“We need to be forward-thinking,” Jake is declaiming. “We need to turn ourselves around.”

“I agree,” says Nicole surprisingly, and we all turn to look at her. “Like my yoga. We’re going to start a mind-body-spirit area,” she tells Uncle Ned. “Evening classes. And maybe like herbal … you know …” She breaks off and we all wait politely, before realizing this is another drifty unfinished Nicole sentence.

“Nicole,” I say quickly, “I know you mentioned this before, but I don’t think it’s practical.” I turn to Jake. “Nicole wants to get rid of lots of stock so there’s room for yoga classes. But we need that stock, so I don’t think—”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Jake cuts across me. “Yoga will attract the right crowd. Pilates, yummy mummies, all that.”

“A good idea?” I stare at him in horror. I was counting on him to nix it. “But we don’t have the floor space!”

“We can get rid of some of the displays,” Jake says. “All those plastic boxes, for a start.” He shudders. “They’re fucking depressing.”

“We could sell yoga mats,” says Nicole. “And yoga blocks. And yoga …” She waves her hands around as though words are superfluous.

“Jake, people come to us for food storage,” I say desperately. “They know we have a good range.” I feel like I’m going a bit mad here. Do Jake and Nicole actually know our business? “Uncle Ned, what do you think?” I say. I can’t believe I’m actually appealing to Uncle Ned, but I don’t have much choice.

“I think leisure is a growth area,” says Uncle Ned sagely. “Yoga is very much of the times, not that I would know much about it!” He gives a hearty laugh. “What I would add is, if you’re going to consider leisure pursuits, then consider fishing.”

“Fishing?” My mouth drops open. What is he on about?

“There’s money to be made in fishing.” He eyes us all significantly. “Fishing equipment. Very popular. On the rise. Just my tuppennyworth.”

I’m speechless. Is that Uncle Ned’s “good business head” talking?

“Fishing,” chimes in Jake thoughtfully. “I mean, it’s the right image. The royal family fish.”

The royal family?

“Jake,” I say, trying to stay calm. “What have the royal family got to do with us?”

“I’m trying to be fucking aspirational,” Jake snaps. “I’m trying to turn our brand around. Look at Burberry. Look at …”

Two waiters are approaching our table with plates, and Jake breaks off. He shakes out his napkin and scowls at me and I feel my confidence ebbing away.

“How’s your own business going?” Uncle Ned asks Jake, as the waiters put down our plates, and Jake gives a secretive grin.

“I’m about to make a killing on manufactured diamonds. Earrings, necklaces, all that. It’s the next big thing.”

“Manufactured diamonds!” Uncle Ned looks impressed. “Now, that sounds like the future.”

Oh my God. Please don’t suggest that Farrs should start stocking diamond jewelry.

I must be strong, I tell myself firmly. I mustn’t be unnerved. I must say what I think. So when all the food has been served and wine poured out, I look around the table, screwing up courage to speak.

“I think maybe the problem is, we’re not all on the same page,” I say. “It’s like we all think Farrs is a different thing. Maybe we need, I don’t know, a mission statement?”

“Yes,” says Jake firmly. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said.”

“I’ve got some paper,” says Nicole, hauling a notebook from her bag, with Dream Believe Do on the cover. “Let’s all write down our ideas and, you know …”

She hands each of us a torn-out page and Jake summons a waiter, who gets us some pens.

“No, no!” says Uncle Ned with a laugh as Nicole tries to pass him one. “I’m simply here to facilitate.” He spreads potted shrimp onto toast and takes a huge bite. “But you go ahead!” he adds, his mouth full. “Very good idea. Very good idea.”

There’s silence as we all eat and write. Jake finishes in about thirty seconds, Nicole seems to be writing an essay, and I keep crossing out words and starting again. But at last I’m done and I look up to see everyone staring at me.

“Sorry,” I say. “I just wanted to …” I glance anxiously down at my page. “It’s quite hard, isn’t it?”

“No it’s not,” says Jake at once. “It’s easy. It’s obvious.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling inadequate. “Well, it wasn’t obvious to me. I mean, I know what I think, but trying to express it …”

“You’re not really a writer,” says Nicole pityingly. “I’ve always loved creative writing.”

“Well, let’s go round the table,” says Uncle Ned, like a headmaster at assembly. “Fixie, you start.”

“OK,” I say nervously. “The mission of Farrs is to sell sensible products at sensible prices, in a community of warmth and helpfulness.”

I raise my eyes to see Jake peering at me incredulously.

“Sensible?” he echoes. “Sensible?”

“It’s a bit boring,” says Nicole kindly.

“It’s fucking mind-numbing!” exclaims Jake. “ ‘Sensible products,’ ” he says mockingly, making a hideous face. “ ‘I’d like to buy some sensible products, please.’ How is that sexy?”

“I wasn’t trying to be sexy,” I say defensively. “I was trying to represent our values—”

“Our values?” Jake cuts me off. “Our values are, one, make money, and, two, make money. You want to hear my mission statement?” He pauses for effect, then declaims, “Power. Profit. Potential.”

“Ah, now, that’s punchy,” says Uncle Ned admiringly. “Say it again?”

“Power. Profit. Potential,” repeats Jake, looking delighted with himself. “Says what it needs to say.”

“I don’t agree,” says Nicole, shaking her head. “It’s not all about power and profit. It’s about atmosphere.”

“Exactly!” I say in relief.

“It’s about vibe,” carries on Nicole. “It’s about … who are we? I’ll read you what I wrote, shall I?” She lifts up her page and clears her throat. “Welcome to Farrs, your gateway to serenity. As you walk in through our portals, your shoulders drop. You feel yourself relax. You’re on a journey. But where? Look around. See the possibilities. See a new you. See the dreams that you can achieve. Don’t sell yourself short … but know that you can be that person!” She’s speaking with more and more emphasis. “You can have it all. You can find peace. With the help of Farrs, you can break those barriers and climb those mountains. So near … so Farrs.”

There’s silence, broken by Jake giving a sudden snort of laughter.

“Sorry, Nicole,” he says. “But that is gibberish.”

“It’s not gibberish!” says Nicole hotly. “It’s inspirational! What do you think, Fixie?”

“I think it’s got a really good message,” I say carefully. “Only, is it a mission statement? It sounds more like, you know, the brochure to a spa.”

“You’re so narrow,” says Nicole, eyeing me with disapproval. “Both of you. That’s your trouble. You have such tricky personality types. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re an Adder,” she says to Jake. “And that’s not good, by the way.”

“Bring it on,” says Jake unrepentantly. He hisses at her across the table, and I can’t help smiling.

“That’s one of my other ideas,” adds Nicole, looking offended. “I want to profile everyone in the company. Then we can use people’s skills better. It’ll add real value. And I want to major on Instagram,” she adds. “We don’t do enough.”

“OK, that makes sense,” says Jake with grudging approval.

“Yes!” I say, relieved to find a point of agreement at last. “We could do far more with baking tips, we could share photos of customers’ cakes.…”

“Always with the bloody homespun, aren’t you, Fixie?” says Jake impatiently. “Instagram isn’t about a few old ladies’ Swiss rolls.”

“It is!” I say. “It’s about community and connection! What do you think, Nicole?” I lean toward Nicole, trying to engage her, but her eyes are absent.

“I think we need a face of Farrs,” she says. “It was you mentioning Burberry made me think of it, Jake. Remember when Emma Watson was the face of Burberry? She was everywhere.”

“Burberry,” echoes Jake with a loving sigh. “Awesome brand.”

“And the face of Farrs should definitely be me,” Nicole adds. “Because I have been a model.” She looks around as though daring any of us to point out that she only ever did one shoot, for the local paper. “We could take photos of me in store. In fact, I’m happy to take over social media. That can be my area.”

“I’ll focus on partnerships,” Jake chimes in at once. “Build up connections with some aspirational names.” He drains his glass and looks around. “Shall we get some more wine?”

“And you, Fixie?” says Uncle Ned. “What will you focus on?”

I stare at him, thoughts swirling furiously round my head. I want to say, “None of you get it! You don’t understand what Farrs is!”

But who will listen to me? No one except Mum. And I’m not bothering her with this; I’m not.

“Fixie, you’re so good in store,” says Nicole kindly. “You’re great with customers. You should focus on, like, sales and stock and running the staff and all that.”

“OK,” I say. “OK. But, listen, why don’t you two come into the shop? Actually come in and see the customers and, you know, remind yourselves of what it’s like?”

“Yeah,” says Jake thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea. What about tomorrow morning first thing?”

“I could do that.” Nicole nods.

“The only thing is, Bob’s coming in for a meeting,” I say, consulting my phone.

Bob is a rock. He runs all the payroll, collates sales figures, discusses big financial decisions with Mum, deals with the accountant, and basically helps with everything to do with money. Their partnership works well for Mum, because when she’s being asked to spend money she doesn’t want to, she says, “That’s a good idea, but I’ll have to ask Bob.” And everyone knows that Bob is as adventurous as a pair of elasticated beige trousers. (Which also happens to be what he wears.)

“All the better,” says Jake. “I haven’t talked to old Bob for ages. It’ll be useful to touch base with him.”

“Great!” I say eagerly. “I’ll text the staff to come in early.”

“I’ll pop along too,” says Uncle Ned. “Don’t want to neglect my duties!”

“Perfect,” I say. “Can’t wait.”

I pick up my spoon and start on my soup, trying to feel optimistic. Once Jake and Nicole really look at the shop, really remember it, really think about it … surely they’ll understand. After all, we’re siblings. We’re Farrs. We’re family.

—

The next morning I get to the shop extra early. I hurry around, wiping surfaces, adjusting displays, and smoothing tea towels. I feel like a nervous parent—proud and protective all at once. I want Jake and Nicole to feel the way I do about Farrs. I want them to get it.

I pause by the wipe-clean oilcloths and stroke them fondly. They’ve been such a winner—we’ve already reordered three times. They’re all in cool Scandi prints which our customers love. As I’m standing there, admiring the designs, I remember the night Mum and I sat with the catalog, choosing them. We both knew they’d sell, we knew.

“Morning, Fixie.” Stacey’s nasal voice greets me and I swing round. I need to talk to Stacey quickly before anyone arrives. “What’s the big deal?” she adds sulkily, sweeping her bleached-blond hair back with silver-painted nails. “Why did we have to come in early?”

“My brother and sister are coming in,” I say. “We wanted to have a quick meeting before we open. But there’s another thing I need to talk to you about first. A sensitive matter.”

“What?” says Stacey discouragingly. “Can I get a coffee?”

“No. This won’t take long.” I beckon her aside, even though there’s no one else in the shop, and lower my voice. “Stacey, you mustn’t give sex tips to customers.”

“I don’t,” says Stacey seamlessly.

I breathe out and remind myself that Stacey’s basic default position is denial. I once said, “Stacey, you can’t leave now,” and she said, “I wasn’t,” even though she was halfway through the door with her coat on.

“You do,” I say patiently. “I heard you with that girl yesterday afternoon. Talking about …” I lower my voice still further. “Clips? Clamps?”

“Oh, that.” Stacey rolls her eyes dismissively. “That just came up in conversation.”

“In conversation?” I stare at her. “What kind of conversation?”

“I was explaining the product,” she says, unperturbed. “Like we’re supposed to.”

“Those clips are for sealing plastic bags!” I hiss. “They’re for kitchen use! Not for …”

There’s silence. I’m not finishing that sentence. Not out loud.

“Nipples,” says Stacey.

“Shhh!” I bat my hands at her.

“You think everyone who buys those clips is using them on plastic bags?” she says dispassionately, chewing her gum, and my mind ranges swiftly over our customers.

“Ninety-nine percent, yes,” I say firmly.

“Fifty percent, if that,” she counters. “What about the spatulas?” She eyes me meaningfully. “You think every spatula purchase is an innocent spatula purchase?”

I gaze at her, my mind boggling. What on earth is going through Stacey’s head every time she rings up a sale?

“Look, Stacey,” I say at last, “you can imagine what you like. But you can’t discuss any of this with customers. It’s totally inappropriate.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes again, as though making a huge concession. “I sold two Dysons yesterday,” she adds. “One for a mum, one for her daughter. Talked them into it. The mum’s recently moved house. Divorce. She’s coming back to kit out her whole kitchen.”

This is the thing with Stacey. The minute you’re thinking she’s gone too far, she pulls a rabbit out of the hat.

“Well, that’s great,” I say. “Brilliant work.” I can hear a commotion behind me and turn to see Uncle Ned, Greg, Jake, and Nicole, all arriving together. Nicole is talking to Greg intently about something as he gazes at her, lovestruck. (Greg’s always had a bit of a thing for Nicole.) Meanwhile, Uncle Ned is peering around as though he’s never been here before. To be fair, it’s been a while.

“Welcome to Farrs, Uncle Ned!” I say. “Do you know Stacey? And Greg?”

“Ah yes,” says Uncle Ned as he looks around. “Very good, very good.”

“I was wondering if we could turn the temperature up,” Nicole is saying earnestly to Greg. “Then we could do hot yoga.”

“Hot. Yeah.” Greg gulps, his gaze fixed adoringly on Nicole. “Hot sounds good.”

“What’s that?” I say, suddenly noticing the wheelie case that Nicole is dragging.

“Makeup for the Instagram shoot,” she says. “Next time I’ll hire a makeup artist.”

A makeup artist? I’m about to reply when Uncle Ned taps me on the arm.

“Now, Fixie,” he says, gesturing at the leisure section. “This is where you could introduce a fishing department. Rods, nets, waders …”

“Er … maybe,” I say diplomatically.

“Jesus, this place,” says Jake, coming toward us, a scowl on his face. “It gets more low-rent every time I see it. What’s that?” He lifts a packet and peers at it disparagingly.

“Muslins for making jams and jellies,” I tell him.

“Jams and jellies?” he echoes in tones of utmost scorn. “Who the hell makes jams and jellies?”

“Our customers do! It’s a really popular hobby—”

“So, is everyone here?” Jake cuts me off without even listening. “All the staff? Because I think we should have a word.”

“Hi, Morag!” I wave as Morag comes in through the door. “OK, we’re all here,” I say to Jake. “At least, everyone who works today. Christine’s on the other shift, and—”

“Whatever,” says Jake impatiently. “Let’s begin. Right.” He raises his voice. “Gather round, people. As you know, my siblings and I are running the show while my mother’s away, and we want change. Wholesale change.” He thumps a fist into his palm and I see Stacey’s eyes widen. “This place needs a boot up the backside. We want upselling. We want cross-selling. We want profiteering.”

I open my mouth to protest—does he actually know what profiteering means?—but Jake’s on a roll.

“This is a game changer, guys,” he’s saying. “This is where the rubber hits the road. We want to turn this place into a must-have, high-end, desirable store. Where tastemakers come. Where the beautiful people hang out. The Abercrombie and Fitch of lifestyle stores. And that’s the image I want you all to project. Stylish. Hip. Sexy.”

“Sexy?” says Morag, looking alarmed.

“Yes, sexy,” snaps Jake. “On-trend. Modern. With it.”

I can see his eyes ranging over the assembled staff with increasing dissatisfaction. Greg is gazing gormlessly at Nicole with his bulgy gray eyes. Stacey is leaning against a display, chewing gum. Morag is still bundled up in her sensible padded coat, her gray hair rumpled from the breeze. To be fair, you wouldn’t walk into the store and think, Wow, what a hip and sexy staff.

“My turn! Let me say something now.” Nicole gives Jake a little shove, and he scowls but lets her take the floor.

“I’m excited,” Nicole begins. “Who’s excited?”

There’s a baffled silence, then Greg says, “Me!” in a throaty voice, and Nicole beams at him.

“There are so many possibilities here. The sky’s the limit. But are you all maximizing your potential?” She eyes Morag, who shuffles backward nervously. “I want to help with that, with the use of specialized psychological profiling and teamwork. Let’s use your personal qualities. Let’s achieve more, letting our imaginations lead us.” She makes a broad, sweeping gesture, nearly knocking a jug off the shelf behind her. “Let’s use Instagram. Let’s use mindfulness. Let’s make change. Let’s climb that mountain. Because we can do it. Together.”

She breaks off into an even more baffled silence. I can see Stacey mouthing What the fuck? to Greg, and I should reprimand her, I suppose, but the truth is I feel exactly the same. What is my sister on about?

“Right!” I say, as it becomes clear Nicole has finished. “Well, thanks, Nicole, for that … er … inspiration. I think that’s it for speeches,” I add, “but basically we’re looking at how to improve the store, so any ideas you have, please share them. Thank you!”

“Wait!” comes Uncle Ned’s voice, as the staff begin to disperse. “I may be an old buffer …” He laughs self-consciously. “But I have been asked to keep an eye on this outfit, and I have learned a few tricks along the way.…” He gives another stagy chuckle.

“Absolutely, Uncle Ned,” I say politely. “Please go ahead. For those of you who don’t know Uncle Ned,” I add, “he was Dad’s brother and has a lot of experience in business. Uncle Ned, what are your ideas?”

“Well, I must echo Jake. It’s all about appearance. Appearance, d’you see?” He wags a roguish finger. “My first impression is this: You girls should be wearing more-attractive costumes. A pretty blouse and heels—that’s what customers want. Let’s see more lipstick, perfume … let’s see some flirting with the customers.…”

My face feels paralyzed. He’s saying this? To the staff? Aloud?

“Sorry!” I gasp, finally finding my voice. “Let me clarify what my uncle is saying, to avoid any … uh … misinterpretation. “By ‘heels’ he meant ‘any heel appropriate for your general foot health.’ And by ‘lipstick’ he meant ‘lipstick is optional for employees. Male or female,’ ” I add hurriedly. “And by ‘flirting with the customers,’ he meant … ‘cordial relations with customers are advised.’ ”

Uncle Ned looks outraged by my interruption, but too bad. Family first is trumped by Don’t get sued.

“So, that’s it!” I conclude breathlessly. “Again, thank you, everyone! That’s all. Let’s open up.”

“You should wear lipstick,” I hear Stacey saying to Morag as they head to the main entrance to open up. “Or, like, lip gloss. Or, like, lip pencil. Or, like …”

“Uncle Ned, I’m sorry I interrupted you,” I say. “But you can’t tell the staff they have to flirt with the customers. We’ll get in trouble.”

“Oh, all this ‘health and safety’ nonsense,” says Uncle Ned impatiently. “I haven’t the time for it!”

“It isn’t health and safety,” I say, trying even harder to remain polite. “Telling a staff member they have to flirt with the customers is basically, you know, sexual harassment.”

Uncle Ned peers at me for an uncomprehending moment, then makes a harrumphing noise, turns away, and picks up a basket.

“Might as well pick up a few things while I’m here,” he says. “Now, where can I find an iron?”

Uncle Ned heads off in the direction of the laundry section, and Nicole produces a sheaf of papers from her bag.

“Here’s your psychological-profile questionnaire,” she says, handing one to Greg. “It’s scientifically based on, like, research, so …” She trails off.

“You are invited to a party,” Greg reads aloud. “Do you attend? Depends on the party,” he says after a moment’s thought. “If it’s a Dungeons and Dragons party, I’m there. If it’s a stag do, I’m there. If it’s a garden party with old ladies in fancy dresses, I’m not there. If it’s a—”

“It’s just a party,” Nicole cuts him off. “A great, fun party. The issue is, do you want to go? It’s a simple question. Party or no party?”

Morag and Stacey have returned to the group by now, and we all wait for Greg to answer. He thinks for a while longer, his brow deeply furrowed, then looks up. “Is there booze?”

“Yes!” says Nicole, clearly losing her patience. “There is. Look, don’t overthink it. Just write. I’m pretty sure you’re an Owl,” she says as she hands Morag a questionnaire. “And you’re probably a Lynx,” she adds to Greg. “Which means you need to work with a Fox.”

“D’you think I’m a Fox?” queries Stacey, taking her questionnaire.

“No,” says Nicole. “Definitely not. You’re more of an Albatross.”

“Then who’s Greg supposed to work with?” Stacey opens her eyes wide, with that faux-innocent look she has. “I’m only wondering, because it’s all so scientific and we haven’t got any Foxes,” she adds blithely. “Should we hire one?”

For a moment Nicole looks caught out, then she makes a sound of annoyance.

“Just do the questionnaires,” she says. “I’m going to do some Instagramming. Greg, you can help.”

As Nicole leads Greg down one of the aisles, Jake looks around the shop critically.

“We need to redo this place,” he says. “It needs a total refit. We should have better flooring, spotlights, some awesome artwork—” He breaks off, staring at the shop door in horror. “Give me strength,” he breathes. “Who is that repulsive wreck?”

“That’s not a repulsive wreck!” I say indignantly as I follow his gaze. “That’s Sheila!”

OK, so maybe Sheila isn’t one of the “beautiful people.” She’s overweight and shabby, with her woolen hat and ancient carrier bags. But she’s a regular. She’s one of us. She waves at me cheerfully and heads to the back, where I know she’ll spend hours examining cake liners and piping bags.

“She has to go,” says Jake firmly. “She’s not a good look.”

“She’s a customer, not a look!” I retort, but Jake’s not listening.

“We need to redo the whole place,” he says again, prodding at one of our functional shelves. “We should hire an interior designer.”

I feel a familiar tweak of anxiety. Why does Jake always have to be so grand?

“I don’t think we’ve got the funds for that,” I say.

“How do you know?” he shoots back.

“Well, I don’t know, but—”

“You know how ridiculously cautious Mum is. I’m sure we’ve got a big cash reserve.” Jake eyes Sheila again with distaste. “She looks like a bloody tramp.”

“Well, let’s introduce a dress code, shall we?” I say with a flash of sarcasm I don’t usually dare use with Jake.

“Yes,” says Jake with emphasis. “That is actually not a bad idea. Ah, Bob!” he adds, looking over my shoulder. “Just the man.”

I turn to see Bob entering the store, in his sensible slacks and jacket, looking slightly disconcerted at Jake greeting him.

“Hi, Bob,” I say. “My brother and sister are in store today.”

“I want to talk to you about money,” says Jake without any preamble. “Can we go somewhere? The back room?”

He sweeps Bob off, and I look around the store to check that all is as it should be. Uncle Ned is still roaming the aisles, filling a basket with items. He’s got an iron, a teapot, and one of our wipe-clean tablecloths, and I feel a sudden warmth that he’s supporting us so generously.

Then, as my gaze sweeps round, I blink, disconcerted. Nicole has taken off her coat and is in tight jeans with a very revealing crop top. She’s draping herself over a rack of saucepans and instructing Greg to take photos of her with her phone, while her opened-up wheelie case blocks the entire aisle.

“I need to look sexy,” she says, playing with her hair. “Do I look sexy?”

“Yeah,” says Greg in a strangled tone. “Yeah, you do.”

“Can you see the saucepans?” I say, hurrying over. “Can you see any products in the shot?”

“It’s not about saucepans,” says Nicole, rolling her eyes. “It’s about who’s the face of Farrs?”

I’m about to reply when I see two women in jeans and cardigans coming in. I wait for Morag to greet them, but she’s sitting on a stool, frowning bewilderedly over her questionnaire. She hasn’t even noticed the customers. I’m about to go and greet them myself, when Stacey comes sidling up.

“I just asked your uncle if he wanted me to start ringing up his purchases,” she begins. “But he said he doesn’t have to pay anything because he’s a temporary director?”

“He what?” I say, before I can stop myself.

“That’s what he said.” Stacey shrugs. “Reckons it’s all a freebie. He’s having me on, right?”

I stare at her dumbly. We’ve always done a friends-and-family discount of 20 percent. We haven’t said, “Help yourself to anything in the shop.”

Family first, I’m reminding myself frantically. I can’t criticize Uncle Ned to Stacey, even though I’m secretly thinking, How dare he?

“Um … well …” I say, playing for time. “We haven’t worked out all the details.…” As I’m speaking, I watch the two women in cardigans approach the display of pans where Nicole is posing. They peer round Nicole at the pans for a few moments, then one of them says, “Excuse me? Can I have a look?”

“Sorry, I’m in the middle of a photo shoot,” replies Nicole impatiently.

“Oh,” says one of the women, looking discomfited. “Well, could we just—”

“It is quite important,” Nicole cuts her off. “Could you go and look at something else first?”

My jaw sags in horror. That’s a customer! I’m about to hurry over and say to Nicole, “What do you think you’re doing?” when I see Uncle Ned behind me.

“I’ll just take a few more bits and pieces,” he says happily, reaching for an eggcup. “Now, Fixie, do you stock such a thing as a toast rack?”

“Um, Uncle Ned, about the friends-and-family discount—” I begin, but I’m cut off by Jake striding back onto the shop floor.

“The whole place clearly needs a rethink,” he’s saying airily to Bob, who looks a bit freaked out. “I think the priority has got to be a hardwood floor, don’t you?”

A hardwood floor? A priority?

“Greg!” Nicole suddenly screeches. “Not like that. Don’t you know anything about Instagram?”

“You fancy the guy next door …” Morag is reading aloud from her questionnaire, looking utterly perplexed. “What do you do about it? One: Look him up on Tinder.…”

Blood is thumping through my temples as I look from Morag, peering at her questionnaire, to Nicole, who’s trying to balance a saucepan on her outstretched fingers while Greg takes a photo. I turn to gaze at Uncle Ned, still contentedly filling his basket up with our stuff, and then Jake, who is now talking to Bob about the “Ralph Lauren look.”

I don’t know where to start.

I think I’m going a bit mad.

“Hey, Fixie,” comes Stacey’s sardonic voice in my ear. “I know they’re your family and all.” She pauses and leans closer. “But they’re shit.”

For a flustered moment I don’t know how to respond.

“No, they’re not!” I retort at last, trying to sound convinced. “That’s totally … They’re …” I wince as Nicole drops the saucepan with a clatter and exclaims, “Oh, it’s dented now! Greg, get another one.”

“Look at them,” says Stacey, unmoved. “They don’t know anything about Farrs. All I’m saying is … you better watch out.”

—

When I get home that evening, I’m bone-weary. It’s been exhausting trying to wrangle each member of the family in turn. Uncle Ned was “offended to the core” that I’d thought he was trying to purloin goods for free. “Naturally” he’d only meant a 40 percent discount.

So then I had to explain that our discount is 20 percent. Whereupon his mouth curled up and he put back the teapot and the tablecloth.

Greg and Morag finally completed their psychological questionnaires, then vigorously disputed the results. Morag, in particular, was highly offended to be told she was a Goat. It didn’t help that Nicole started her spiel by saying, “The Goat is what we call a negative personality, so you might want to work on your positive qualities, Morag.”

Morag went all pink and huffy, but Nicole didn’t even notice. Meanwhile, Greg had looked all the profiles up online and decided he wanted to be a Lion. But Nicole said he couldn’t be a Lion, he was the opposite of a Lion. So he answered the whole questionnaire again with different answers but he still wasn’t a Lion, he was a Pony. Whereupon he sulked for the rest of the day.

I’m sure all this personality stuff makes sense with a trained, tactful person doing it. But Nicole isn’t trained or tactful. All she’s achieved is to upset people. Only of course I couldn’t say anything negative in public, so I filled one out myself and listened while Nicole explained it to me. I can’t even remember what I was—maybe a Panda? (Stacey refused to do hers. She said, “I know which personality I am already. I’m Stroppy Bitch.”)

Then we tried to look at how Nicole’s yoga class was going to work and nearly had a massive row in public, because she all she kept saying was, “You promised me space, Fixie, you promised me space,” but didn’t seem to have any idea where the space should come from. We compromised in the end by getting rid of the leisure section, reducing the baking section, and halving the glassware, but it’s not ideal.

At least I managed to talk Jake out of booking hardwood-flooring companies to come and quote next week. But I gave in over the “relaunch.” He wants to throw a party and invite “cool people” and “influencers” and “put Farrs on the map.”

I mean, whatever. If he can get some cool people to come along to Farrs, then good luck to him.

I dump my bag and jacket in the hall, head to the kitchen, and stop in delight. Ryan is sitting at the table, drinking a beer, watching the news on our tiny TV, and scrolling down his phone. He looks so at home, I feel a bubble of joy expand inside me. He’s here! I honestly thought—

Well, I didn’t know what to think. He was so casual when we said goodbye the other night, I was afraid he might already be moving on. So somehow, these last two days, I’ve forced myself not to text him constantly but to play it cool. Wait for him to make the next move. And it’s worked!

“Hi!” I say. I’m trying to sound casual, but my voice is giddy with relief. “Didn’t expect you tonight.”

“Nicole let me in,” he says, standing up. “I thought you’d get back earlier.”

“We had a crisis over a damaged delivery,” I say apologetically. “It tied me up.”

“No biggie.” He smiles. “You’re here now.”

He pulls me into his arms and I close my eyes, almost swooning as our mouths meet. I hadn’t realized how desperate I was for him. The touch of him, the scent of him … the himness of him.

It’s been so long since I had a proper boyfriend. Not that I would admit this to him.

“So how it going?” I draw back and survey his face. “How’s the job?”

The only two texts I’ve sent Ryan were wishing him luck with the job and then asking how his first day had gone. He didn’t reply to either, but I figured he was super-busy.

“It’s great!” His face creases into a smile. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Fantastic!” I say in delight. “So you like the work?”

“Love it,” he says emphatically. “And I think I’ll be good at it, you know? I’m not saying I’m an expert, but I get what they’re trying to do. What we’re trying to do,” he corrects himself, a little self-consciously, and I give him another hug. This is all even better than I hoped.

“I’m so happy,” I murmur against his shoulder. “I really hoped it would work out. And is Seb a good boss?”

I ask it more for form’s sake than anything else, and I’m surprised when Ryan stiffens slightly.

“He’s fine,” he says after a pause. “He’s OK.”

“Only OK?” I feel a tad disappointed. I don’t know why, but I assumed Seb would be a brilliant boss.

“No, he’s great,” Ryan backtracks. “He’s fine. All good.” He flashes a smile and I automatically return it—but I’m still preoccupied.

“So, what’s the issue?” I can’t help probing.

“Nothing.” Ryan brushes it off. “I shouldn’t have said anything. He’s great.”

“But … ?” I persist. I know there’s a “but,” and I have to know what it is.

“OK.” Ryan exhales. “Well, I guess there’s a bit of tension.”

“Tension?” I stare at him. “Why would there be tension?”

“It’s tricky.” Ryan hesitates as though marshaling his words. “Thing is, people in the office are coming to me. Asking my opinion. And Seb doesn’t like it.” Ryan winces. “I think he’s threatened.”

“Why would Seb be threatened by you?” I say, astonished. “He set up his own investment company. You don’t know anything about investment. How can you be a threat?”

I have a flashback to Seb in his office. His open manner. His laugh. He doesn’t seem like he would be threatened by anyone. He seems like the type who would be interested in all viewpoints.

“I agree!” Ryan exclaims, nodding vigorously. “I’m a beginner! But here’s the thing: I knew a lot of people in the States. Entrepreneurs, tech companies, environmental outfits … I picked stuff up. And the guys want to hear it. All except Seb. He’s a nice guy but closed-minded. He likes his ‘process.’ ”

I’m silent for a moment, digesting this. This isn’t what I imagined of Seb—but then, I’ve only had a few conversations with him, I remind myself. I’ve never seen him in a work situation. Maybe he’s more cautious and set in his ways than he appears.

“We had a big meeting yesterday,” Ryan continues. “Who ends up taking it? Me. They’re talking about tech. I let them have their say, but then I’m like, ‘Have you even been to San Francisco? Have you met the guys at the cutting edge? Because I have. I know their names. I’ve swum in their fucking pools.’ ”

“Wow,” I breathe. “That sounds amazing!”

“I was telling them about tech start-ups they hadn’t even heard of.” Ryan nods. “They were writing it all down. Lapping it up.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Seb,” says Ryan, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t like it.”

“How could he not like it?” I say, perplexed. “You’re only sharing information.”

“He’s a control freak.” Ryan shrugs. “He’s like, ‘Stay in your box, Ryan.’ But I don’t stay in boxes. Sorry, but that’s who I am.”

His California-blue eyes are shining and he’s brimming over with energy. I have a sudden vision of him taking a boardroom by storm. Blowing everyone away with his charisma and insider knowledge. Of course he’s made an impact, how could he not? And maybe he’s right—maybe Seb doesn’t like it.

“Well, it’s early days,” I say at last. “I’d tread carefully if I were you. Be tactful.”

“Oh, I am.” Ryan nods again. “And you know what, I’m not complaining. It’s all good. The main thing is, I’m in work, and that’s down to you.”

He looks so radiant, I can’t help beaming back.

“I’m so proud of you,” I say, gazing up at him. “They’re lucky to have you!”

“Fixie,” he says affectionately, and kisses my nose. “Every guy needs a Fixie, you know that?”

“I’ve missed you,” I murmur, running my hands down his back.

“Mmm, me too,” he says, but he doesn’t kiss me again. He’s looking at his phone over my shoulder, I realize.

I mean, fair enough. People can look at phones. It’s not against the law.

I move my hands still lower and caress him, trying to make my meaning plain. I’ve been longing for Ryan. All I want to do is go upstairs and reunite properly and forget everything else. But Ryan doesn’t respond.

“Hmm,” he says vaguely—then he focuses on me as though for the first time. “You know what? I’m ravenous. And I’ve got a stack of washing in the hall. Jake and Leila’s machine is bust.”

“Oh,” I say, halted. “Well, I’ll put that on here. And let’s eat. We’ve got some steak,” I add, opening the fridge and peering in. “Does that sound good?”

“Awesome,” says Ryan, wandering out. “Tell me when it’s ready. I’ll find something on telly.”

As I get the frying pan from its rack, I don’t know exactly how to feel. Deep down, I was hoping that Ryan would sweep me upstairs at once and ravish me. And even more deep down—like, fathoms down—I was hoping he might say something like, “Fixie, I love you.” Or: “Fixie, I’ve always loved you, it’s always been you, have you never realized that?”

No, stop it. Let’s not aim too high.

Anyway, this is better than rushing off for instant sex the minute I set foot inside the door. It’s far better.

Isn’t it?

Yes, I tell myself firmly. It’s definitely better. Because he wants to be with me for me. Not simply for sex but as a person.

The TV comes on in the other room, and the familiar sound fills me with a sudden wave of warmth. Of course this is better. Of course it is! Here we are, a proper domesticated couple, making supper and asking about each other’s day. It’s what I always wanted. Coziness. Intimacy. We may not live together, but it’s as good as.

As I start to peel a potato, I find myself humming happily. There was Mum, saying Ryan was flaky. And Hannah, saying it would never last. But they were both wrong. He’s here! With me! All the troubles of the day are starting to recede, even Uncle Ned. The point is, if you have someone to come home to, nothing’s that bad, and now I have Ryan to come home to. My teenage self still can’t quite believe it, but it’s true! Ryan Chalker is here and he’s mine.