I Owe You One: A Novel

Twelve

A month later, Mum is in Paris. I can’t quite believe it, but she is. She’s posted a million pictures of herself and Aunty Karen on her new Facebook page. (Mum? Facebook?) There are shots of Mum at the Eiffel Tower, Mum sitting at a pavement-café table, and Mum with Aunty Karen in white robes at a spa. (Mum? A spa?)

As I say, it’s unbelievable. Although, to be fair, there’s a lot about life at the moment that I can’t quite believe. I can’t believe that Ryan and I are still together as a couple, in a solid domestic routine that makes me want to hug myself with joy. He comes round at least twice a week and I cook for him and we watch telly and it’s lovely. It’s low-key. It’s mellow. All the things I never dared to dream that Ryan and I might be.

Nor can I believe that we’re hosting a party tonight at Farrs to “reposition” ourselves—Jake’s word, not mine—for which he’s hired a red carpet and a photographer and a DJ and a bouncer. (A bouncer?)

But above all, I can’t believe what Hannah is telling me about her and Tim. This can’t be right; it can’t.

We’re in the back room at Farrs, touching up our makeup together. Jake has renamed the room “Backstage” for tonight and has equipped it with three bottles of champagne, one of which Hannah immediately opened.

“He just announced it,” she’s saying miserably, taking a gulp. “He sat down on the sofa and said, “ ‘I don’t want a baby anymore.’ ”

“How can he not want a baby anymore?” I say, incredulous. “Your whole life has been about trying for a baby.”

“I know! He says he’s changed his mind. He says he’s allowed to change his mind and he doesn’t have to explain it. What kind of person says that?”

Tim, I silently answer.

“Maybe he’s just having a wobble,” I say. “Take him out to supper, have a glass of wine, and talk it through.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She looks doleful. “I dunno. We’re not getting on too well.”

“Really? Why not?”

“It’s my fault.” Hannah hesitates. “I’ve been off my game. We had a big row at the weekend. I … I put my foot in it. I upset him.”

“How?” I can’t help asking. Tim is basically made of Teflon. I can’t even imagine Hannah upsetting him.

“It’s kind of mortifying.” She stares into her glass.

“What?” I say, agog. “Hannah, come on. What?”

“We were at this dinner party,” says Hannah reluctantly. “The talk turned to male circumcision and sex. I’d been working since six A.M., by the way,” she adds defensively. “My brain was fried. I couldn’t think straight.”

“I’m not going to judge you!” I exclaim. “What did you say?”

“OK.” She breathes out. “So everyone was discussing whether circumcision affects sex. And I said to Tim, across the table, ‘Well, you’re not circumcised, are you, babe? And it doesn’t make you any less sensitive.’ ”

“What’s wrong with that?” I say, puzzled. “I mean, it’s a bit indiscreet …”

“You don’t understand.” Hannah shakes her head wildly. “He looked at me with this horrible flat look, and he said, ‘But, Hannah, I am circumcised.’ ”

“Oh my God!” I clap my hand over my mouth. “Is he?”

“Yes! He is! He always has been! I don’t know what happened. I must have had a brain-freeze.”

“Shit!” I quell a sudden terrible urge to laugh. I mustn’t laugh.

“It was so embarrassing.” Hannah screws up her face in agony. “The whole table heard. They were like, ‘How can you not know if your own husband is circumcised or not? Have you never even noticed?’ They teased us all evening. And Tim …” She pauses. “He didn’t take it very well.”

“Huh,” I say, regaining control of myself. “That’s understandable.”

“I know. I mean, what he should have done was say nothing. How would anyone have known? I told him that afterward. I said, ‘Why did you even open your mouth?’ But it didn’t help.”

“Right,” I say, a bit lost for words. “Well—”

“How could I forget my own husband’s penis?” Hannah’s voice rises in agitation. “His penis?”

“Er.…” I peer at her strained face. “Hannah, don’t take this the wrong way, but is there any chance you’re pregnant already? You might have got … I dunno. Pregnancy tension or whatever?”

“No! I haven’t got pregnancy tension; I’ve got trying-for-pregnancy tension!” Hannah erupts. “It’s turning me into a madwoman! How do people do it?”

“I have no idea,” I admit. “Look, try to forget about it. You’ll pull through. Tim and you are solid.”

“Yes.” Hannah seems to calm down a bit. “Maybe. Anyway, this is your evening. Let’s not talk about me anymore. It looks amazing out there!” She gestures toward the shop floor.

The place has been transformed for the party. Jake closed early and brought in a team of removers. They’ve packed away about half the stock, got rid of the display tables, put up lights and a bar for drinks. A DJ has set up speakers and a laptop. There are also massive posters everywhere, with Nicole’s face blown up huge and MEET THE FACE OF FARRS, printed at the bottom.

I mean, to be fair, it does look amazing. It just doesn’t look much like a shop. Let alone our shop.

“So, who’s coming tonight?” inquires Hannah.

“Up to Jake.” I spread my hands. “This is his thing. He says it’s a ‘curated’ guest list.”

“Oh, curated,” says Hannah, and shoots me a sardonic look, which I return.

Hannah is the only person to whom I will ever be disloyal about the family, because basically she is family. So she knows what I think of Jake. And all Jake’s ideas.

“He went through the customer database,” I tell her, lowering my voice. “And he chose all the ones with posh post codes.”

“Posh post codes!” echoes Hannah incredulously. “What counts as posh?”

“God knows. And he’s got an ‘influencer’ coming. This YouTube girl called Kitten Smith. And the local press. And we’ve all got to look ‘glamorous and sophisticated.’ Jake gave all the staff a lecture today. Poor Morag looked totally freaked out.”

“Well, you look very glamorous and sophisticated,” says Hannah loyally, and I roll my eyes with a grin. I went to get a blow-dry this afternoon, but no way was I splashing out on a new dress, so I’m in the dark green shift I wore to be Nicole’s bridesmaid. “What does your mum think?” Hannah adds. “Isn’t this costing a fortune?”

“Mum’s OK with it,” I say with a shrug. “She says it’s Jake’s thing and it’s harmless enough.”

I try not to give away my sense of betrayal. I phoned Mum up two weeks ago because I was worried about all Jake’s grandiose party plans. I wanted her to agree with me and tell him to rein it in—but she said, “Ah, love, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” in her easy way. And I didn’t want to press it and cause stress and ruin her holiday. So here we are.

“There’s a red carpet when you come in,” says Hannah, her mouth twitching. “A red carpet.”

“I know,” I say. “Jake says it’s for ‘VIP photo opportunities.’ ” I meet her eye and bite my lip and suddenly I can feel giggles rising up. It all seems so ridiculous. Although maybe Mum’s right—maybe Jake understands promotion in a way we don’t.

“He’s given the shop a total makeover,” I add. “Him and Nicole. They insisted. They want it all to look more ‘cool.’ You know Nicole’s started yoga classes?”

“I got her email.” Hannah nods. “To be honest, I thought, Why would you do yoga at Farrs?”

“Exactly! But she’s got about six friends who do it, and she keeps moving the front displays and it’s been so disruptive. She and Jake have cut the food storage department by half, and they’ve lost the jam-making department completely, and Jake’s brought in these really expensive garden lanterns that his friend imports. I mean, garden lanterns when we don’t have a garden department!” My voice rises with indignation. “Why are we stocking them but not the full range of storage containers?”

“I know,” says Hannah sympathetically, and I belatedly remember that I ranted to her about this a few days ago. “But there’s nothing you can do about that now, is there? Try to forget about it, Fix. Enjoy the evening.” She tops up my glass. “Is Ryan coming?”

“As soon as he finishes at work,” I say with a nod.

“And how’s it going?” She raises her eyebrows meaningfully.

“His work, you mean? Or us?”

“Both,” she says. “Everything.”

“Well, we’re great,” I say firmly. “We’re like an old married couple.”

And it’s true: I’ve felt really close to Ryan these last weeks. It’s all so natural and lovely. I’ve come to expect his presence in the house, once, twice, or even three times a week. And our relationship is …

Well.

I mean, it’s a bit different from the way I imagined. We don’t have quite as much sex as I thought we would. There was that one time, when we first got together, and since then it’s been … I guess the word would be sporadic. Or maybe intermittent. Five times in total is what it boils down to. In a month.

But what that says to me is that Ryan needs to be nurtured. He needs to heal. He’s been through a very tough, humiliating time, so his libido has inevitably gone down. It’s totally normal. (I googled it.) And the last thing I must do is make him sensitive or self-conscious about it. So I haven’t even mentioned it. I’ve just looked after him in the most unconditional, supportive way I know. Good home-cooked food, lots of hugs, lots of listening.

“And his job?” inquires Hannah.

“Patchy,” I admit. “Not straightforward. He’s having power struggles in the office.”

“Power struggles?” Hannah opens her eyes wide. “Already?”

“Don’t repeat this,” I say quietly, “but the boss—that guy I met—is jealous of Ryan. He said he wanted someone with experience of the world—but when it came to it, he didn’t. He wanted the same old thing: a young, wide-eyed intern he could push around and not be threatened by. It’s a shame.”

I’ve been really disappointed in Seb. It just shows: You can be completely wrong about someone. Apparently he’s insisted that Ryan stop attending some of the meetings he was going to—which makes no sense, because how’s Ryan supposed to learn the business? Ryan’s theory is that Seb now bitterly regrets hiring, as Ryan puts it, “a man, not a boy.” Especially as the rest of the company love Ryan and keep asking his opinion.

“Hmm.” Hannah thinks about this. “Can’t Ryan keep his head down?”

“He does. As much as he can. But, you know, he’s Ryan.” I spread my hands. “If he thinks someone’s going to make a bad decision, he’ll tell them so.”

As I speak, I feel a little glow of pride. It’s exactly because Ryan won’t keep his head down that he’s such a remarkable guy. He says he can see at least ten ways in which ESIM is going wrong. He says he’s not going to rest until he makes his case, and already people are cornering him, asking his advice. He reckons Seb is a nice guy but doesn’t know how to manage people, and the company has grown too fast, too soon. “It’s all over the shop,” he keeps saying, shaking his head. “All over the shop. They’ve got no idea.”

He talks quite a bit about someone called Erica, who is apparently the oldest and most experienced person on the team. She’s a massive fan of Ryan’s. She reckons he’s much more a natural leader than Seb and could run things in a heartbeat. But Seb essentially owns the company, so there’s not much chance of things changing.

At first I found it dizzying, the way Ryan was already talking about leading. But I’ve gradually got used to him, to his huge ambition. He sees the world as a place to conquer. When he tells me how he made it through Hollywood, it’s like listening to an SAS commander talking about a campaign. And, yes, he crashed and burned—but isn’t that the same with any success story? Great leaders fail, learn, pick themselves up, start over, and reach even greater heights.

“Anyway, he’ll work it out,” I conclude. “He gets on with a lot of the team, at least. They go out together and play pool, like, three times a week. It’s nice.”

“Well, here’s to it all working out,” says Hannah, and we’re clinking glasses when in come Morag, Greg, and Stacey.

My jaw drops at the sight of them. They’re all in party clothes, but none are what I would call “glamorous and sophisticated.” Morag is in the most lurid, shiny purple dress I’ve ever seen, with shoulder pads and a peplum. As she moves, it turns blue under the lights. It’s hideous. Where did she even get it from, the Flammable Dress Shop?

Stacey is in a dress which essentially consists of a set of black lace underwear with black chiffon draped over the top. And Greg is in what he probably thinks is a “sharp” suit, with gelled hair. He’s wearing white socks and pointy shoes and looks like he’s going to a 1950s party.

“Hannah!” Morag greets her like an old friend, which in fact she is. Everyone at Farrs knows Hannah. “Lovely to see you! Although, should you be drinking?” Her eyes fall on Hannah’s glass reprovingly.

“Tim doesn’t want a baby anymore,” announces Stacey. “He’s changed his mind. Just like that.”

“Stacey!” I gasp. “That’s private!”

“Couldn’t help overhearing,” she says unrepentantly, clearly meaning: “Couldn’t help listening in on your conversation.” “Bummer,” she adds to Hannah.

“Has he found out he’s already got a kid, then?” says Greg sympathetically. “And he doesn’t want another one because, you know, child support?”

“No!” exclaims Hannah as though stung. “Of course not.”

“Happens,” says Greg with a shrug. “Happened to a mate of mine on The Jeremy Kyle Show. He got a free DNA test out of it, though. So, you know, not all bad. Funny story,” he adds, reminiscing. “They messed up on his expenses. He ended up ten quid up. Result!”

“I’m sure that’s not what’s up with Tim,” I say hurriedly, seeing Hannah’s frozen expression. “And as I say, it’s a private matter, so could we all—”

“I say divorce him,” says Stacey to Hannah, ignoring me. “And sleep with all his friends. Then, when he’s an emotional wreck, find another friend—maybe his very best friend, the one he thought would never betray him—and sleep with her.”

“Her?” Hannah’s eyes widen.

“Her.” Stacey nods without a flicker. “And you better be good.”

“Stacey, love, I don’t think that’s the way at all,” puts in Morag. “Why not bake Tim a nice cake?” she adds to Hannah. “A Victoria sponge, or a nice carrot cake … He may have a gluten allergy!” Her eyes suddenly light up. “That may explain everything.”

“Morag, I don’t think a gluten allergy makes you decide against fatherhood,” I can’t help saying. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“It may be irritating his insides,” she replies, unmoved. “These allergies can wreak havoc, love.”

“I say hypnotize him,” says Greg, and we all turn to stare at him.

“Hypnotize him?” echoes Hannah.

“I’ve been doing a course.” Greg gives her a knowing look. “Specialist military techniques. Give me twenty-four hours; I can strip him down until he has no personality left and you can start again.”

“Right,” says Hannah after a pause. “Well, maybe.”

“Don’t resist it,” says Greg, his eyes bulging at her. “You’ve got to let me help you.” He gestures meaningfully with his hands. “Let me help you.”

“Is the party starting yet?” says Hannah desperately.

“Exactly!” I say. “We should get out there and greet people. Come on.”

I usher everyone out and survey the shop floor. It looks totally alien. Music is thudding through speakers, and two waitresses are taking round trays of champagne. Some people have arrived, but I don’t recognize any of them. They look like Jake’s estate-agent friends.

Near the entrance is a five-foot-long “red carpet,” with a VIP rope and a backdrop screen covered in printed stars. Nicole is on the red carpet, looking totally at home, posing for a photographer with a blond girl who must be Kitten Smith. They’re both in long dresses, and Nicole is throwing her hair around and doing lots of fake laughing with her arm around the blond girl’s waist.

“Look,” I say to Stacey, feeling a quickening of excitement in spite of myself. “It’s Kitten Smith.”

“Oh yeah,” says Stacey, shooting her an unimpressed look. “How much did Jake pay her to come?”

“Pay her?” I stare at Stacey.

“Well, she wouldn’t have done it for free, would she?” Stacey rolls her eyes.

“Right. Of course not!” I say hastily, trying not to sound as naïve as I feel. It never occurred to me that Jake was shelling out on this YouTuber. I thought he’d got her interested in Farrs somehow.

How much did he pay?

As I’m watching, two girls in glitzy-looking dresses come through the door and Jake kisses them both with loud exclamations. I have no idea who they are. I have no idea who anyone is. I know I need to go and mingle, but they all look terrifying. I decide I’ll finish my drink, get another one, and then go and mingle.

Jake looks in his element, I can’t help noticing. He’s handing out drinks and cracking jokes, all loud and confident. I keep hearing the phrase “Notting Hill” in conversation, which makes me prickle suspiciously, but I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I drain my glass, fill it up again, and am about to approach the glitziest, most-frightening-looking girl, when I see a welcome sight coming in through the door. It’s Vanessa! She’s dressed up smartly in a navy suit, but she’s as smiley and familiar as ever.

Finally! An actual customer! I hurry over and find myself kissing her on both cheeks, which is not what I’d normally do but I’m picking up habits from Jake.

“Vanessa! Welcome!” I grab a glass of champagne from a waitress and give it to her.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” says Vanessa pleasantly, looking around. “Very smart. What’s it in aid of? I couldn’t quite work it out, from the invitation.”

“Oh … a revamp,” I say vaguely. “Relaunch.”

“That’s what I told the others.” Vanessa nods. “They’re on their way. We met in the pub first, actually, but I’m pressed for time, so I thought I’d hurry along.”

“The others?” I say, not following.

“The Cake Club!” says Vanessa with a friendly laugh. “They didn’t seem to know anything about it. I had to send out a round-robin email. You really need to look at your mailing list, Fixie.”

“You did what?” I stare at her.

“But they’ll be along any moment,” she says cheerfully. “Ah, look, there’s Sheila now.”

Sheila? My head whips round. Oh my God. Sheila.

I’m sure Sheila wasn’t on Jake’s curated guest list, what with her being a “repulsive wreck.” But after what looks like an altercation with the bouncer, she firmly pushes her way in. She takes off her shabby mac to reveal a crumpled, tent-like dress and her usual furry boots. I can see her peering around, searching for a familiar face—then she spots Nicole on the red carpet.

“Nicole!” she exclaims, and shuffles onto the red carpet to join Nicole and Kitten Smith. “Don’t you look nice? Who’s this? A new salesgirl? Are we doing photos?”

I glance over at Jake and feel a convulsion of laughter. His face. His face! He breaks away from the group of smart people he’s with and heads swiftly toward the red carpet.

“Delighted to see you,” he says smoothly to Sheila. “Absolutely delighted. But may I suggest—” He breaks off as the door opens and six more members of the Cake Club pile in, sweeping past the bouncer, all wearing anoraks and sensible shoes.

“Ooh, look!” Brenda exclaims, peering around. “Doesn’t it all look strange?”

“Morag!” calls another woman whose name I don’t know. “I brought oatmeal cookies. Where shall I put them?” She brandishes a plastic box, and I see Jake flinch in horror.

“Girls!” calls Sheila, waving vigorously from the red carpet. “Here! We’re doing photos. Young man,” she says to the local photographer. “Would you do a group shot? Come on, Cake Club! Nicole, you don’t mind moving, do you? Morag, join us!”

As Sheila literally elbows Nicole off the red carpet, my stomach is hurting from trying not to laugh. Within thirty seconds, the red carpet is full of middle-aged women in sensible coats, all beaming and waving at the camera. The smart guests are peering at them in surprise. Jake looks like he wants to throw up. I can hear Nicole ranting to Kitten Smith about how she’s the face of Farrs and this is all so unprofessional.

At that moment, I hear a voice in my ear. “Love, I wondered if you had another mug? Same as before, the brown one.”

I whip round and bite my lip. It’s my friend the old shuffly man with the shopping trolley. Of course it is.

“Hello!” I say. “We’re not really open, but I’m sure I can get you a mug.”

“I saw the lights on,” he says conversationally, looking around. “Serving drinks, are you?”

“Here you are.” I pour him out a glass of champagne. “Enjoy.”

I hurry off and find a brown earthenware mug in the stock room. I wrap it in tissue, then return, take the old man’s money, and pack his new mug safely in his shopping trolley. The tills aren’t open, but I’ll sort it all out tomorrow.

“Would you like some more champagne?” I ask. “And a canapé? Or a cookie?”

“Well.” His rheumy eyes brighten as he looks at his nearly empty glass. “A drop more of this would be grand.…”

“Excuse me.” Jake’s stentorian voice interrupts us. “Do you have an invitation?” He doesn’t even wait for the old man to answer. “No. You don’t. So could you kindly leave?”

To my horror, he takes the old man by the elbow and starts to escort him, quite roughly, to the door.

“Jake!” I exclaim. “Jake, stop it!”

“This is a private event,” Jake says to the old man, ignoring me. “The shop will be open during normal hours tomorrow. Thank you so much.”

He turns back from dispatching the old man, and I feel a flare of rage.

“Fixie, can I see you for a minute?” says Jake in ominous tones, and I glare back at him.

“Yes,” I snap, and follow him to the back room. He slams the door and we stare at each other for a silent ten seconds. I’m forming furious, outraged phrases. I can see them now, flashing in their thought bubble, red and angry.

How dare you? That was a customer and he deserved respect! Who do you think you are? What would Dad say?

I draw breath, telling myself that this time I’ll do it; this time I’ll really have my say. But as I look up at Jake’s intimidating face, it happens again. My nerve collapses. The ravens have started flapping around me.

“Are you deliberately trying to sabotage our relaunch, Fixie?” he says, in his sarcastic, biting way. “I assume it was you who invited the anorak brigade, not to mention your homeless friend?”

“He’s not homeless!” I retort, as strongly as I can manage. “And even if he were, he’s a customer! And I think …” I swallow. “I just think …”

My words have ground to a halt. I hate myself right now. I can’t shout. I can’t assert myself. I can’t say the things I want to say.

“What?” demands Jake.

“I … I don’t think you should have treated him like that,” I stutter at last.

“Oh, you don’t?” Jake snaps back. “Well, I don’t think you should have invited all and bloody sundry to what was supposed to be a professional event.”

“I didn’t invite anyone!” I say. “It was Vanessa!” But Jake isn’t listening. He sweeps back out to the party and after a few seconds I follow, my cheeks burning. I’m thinking I might go and drown my sorrows with a cookie, when I see Leila waving at me.

“Leila!” I exclaim in relief, because if there’s anyone who will cheer your soul it’s Leila. She’s wearing a silver dress with a tulle skirt and looks like some sort of sprite.

“Fixie!” she says, and hugs me. “Thank goodness! I told Ryan you must be here somewhere.…”

“Ryan?” My heart lifts. “Is he here?”

“He’s here.” Leila bites her lip and lowers her voice. “He’s drunk.”

“Drunk?” I stare at her.

“It’s not good.” Leila looks anxious. “Fixie, you need to know something; he—” She breaks off as Ryan himself appears, holding two glasses of champagne. His eyes are bloodshot and he surveys us all with a morose gaze.

“Hi!” I say, kissing him. “Is everything … Are you …” My words trail away and I glance uncertainly at Leila, who winces. “What’s up?”

“Bastard fired me,” says Ryan, so lightly that at first I think I must have misheard.

“What?”

Ryan gives me a humorless smile and lifts his glass in a mock toast. “You heard me, Fixie. Bastard fired me. I’ve lost my job.”

—

Shock is too small a word for what I’m feeling right now. I’m beyond shocked. I’m stunned. Ryan’s lost his job?

We’ve commandeered the back room. I’ve forgotten about the party. All I can think about is Ryan.

“I just don’t get it,” I say, sinking into a chair opposite Ryan. “It makes no sense. How exactly did it happen?”

“Seb called me in and said it ‘wasn’t working out.’ ” Ryan shrugs. “That was it. The end. Finished.”

“But why?”

“I think you know why,” he says wryly.

I lean forward, surveying Ryan’s face, registering his calm, resigned expression.

“Seb was threatened by you,” I say. “Is that it?”

“Let’s just say, I saw it coming,” says Ryan, and takes a slug of his drink. “He’s right, it wasn’t working out. It wasn’t working out for him.”

“Because you were competition,” I say bluntly, and Ryan nods his head in assent.

My cloud of shock is starting to fade away and anger is rising in its place. It’s so unfair. It’s monstrous. Why couldn’t they work together? Why did Seb have to see Ryan as a threat? He promises him a chance, then dumps him? It’s just wrong.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind,” Ryan says, leaning back and looking pensively at the ceiling. “Only I gave a good few weeks to that place. I could have used that time to job-hunt. Truth is, he was never planning to employ me permanently. He was never going to keep me on. He only did it as a favor to you. Payback. Whatever.”

Everything seems so clear now. Seb was never going to take Ryan seriously as an employee. The whole thing was like a game, and I should never, ever have kick-started it.

“I wish I’d never claimed that stupid IOU,” I say passionately, getting to my feet. “I wish I’d never set eyes on him in the first place.”

“You weren’t to know.” Ryan shrugs again. “I just wish he’d been honest in the first place. He takes all my ideas, wrings me dry, and kicks me out. Still, what’s done is done.”

“So what will you do?”

“You know, Fixie … I have no idea. When a guy hits rock bottom, it’s like, what are the options?”

Ryan seems so resigned. So crushed. But I’m not resigned or crushed. I’m crackling with indignation. My fingers are drumming relentlessly. My feet are doing their thing: forward-across-back, forward-across-back. I can’t stay here. I can’t let Seb Marlowe get away with it. Who does he think he is?

Drawing myself up short, I suddenly recall the vow I made to myself in Seb’s office. I wasn’t going to try to fix stuff anymore, not unless it was super-important and vital.

But then, what’s this if not super-important and vital?

Abruptly, I reach for my bag and coat.

“I’ll be back in a while,” I say. “Stay at mine tonight. We’ll sort all this out.”

As I stride through the party, I feel grim and determined. “I have to go,” I say to Hannah. “Can you tell Jake?”

“Well, sure,” she says, looking surprised. “But what—”

“I have to fix a thing,” I say succinctly, and march out.

I stride to the tube station, travel all the way to Farringdon, and get out, feeling stony and unforgiving. Within a few minutes I’m at the ESIM building and I glance up as I approach, feeling suddenly foolish. I rushed out in such a blaze of indignation, I didn’t think about what time it was. Maybe no one’s there and I’ve wasted my time …

But there are lights on. A few, at least.

My heart pumping, I press the buzzer and someone—not sure who—lets me in. I rise up in the lift and emerge, all ready to say, “I’d like to see the CEO, please,” in my most cutting tones—but he’s there. It’s him. Seb. He’s waiting for the lift, looking fairly astonished to see me.

“It’s you,” he says. “I thought—”

“Hi,” I say curtly. “I wanted to see you. If that’s convenient?”

There’s a short silence. Seb’s pleasant gaze doesn’t waver, but I can sense his brain is working.

“Sure,” he says at last. “Come on in.”

As I follow him to his office, I notice he’s looking slightly rumpled, as though he’s spent too long at work, and his brown frondy hair is askew.

I fight an urge to put it straight. That would not be appropriate. Anyway, I need to focus. I need to come in fighting.

His office is warm and inviting, just like it was before. The coffee-cup sleeve is still on his desk, I notice, and I feel a pang of indignation. Some favor. Some favor that was.

“So,” he says as we sit down, and from his wary tone I sense he knows exactly why I’m here. It seems only about five minutes ago that I was here with Ryan, feeling so joyful that everything was working out. The memory fuels my rage, and I take a deep breath.

“I simply wanted to say,” I begin in my most castigating tones, “that I think when you enter into an agreement with someone you should do it in good faith. That’s all. You should have honest intentions.”

“I agree,” says Seb after a pause.

“Oh, you agree,” I say sarcastically.

I know sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, but I’ve never actually known what that means, and I don’t care. Low is fine. Low is good.

“Yes,” says Seb steadily. “I agree.”

“Well, I don’t,” I shoot back—then instantly realize that’s wrong. It’s his fault. He’s flustering me. “I mean, I do,” I amend. “I do agree. But that’s not how you’ve treated Ryan. It’s a travesty! Just because he’s a man of the world, you can’t cope with him? Just because he has ambition and vision and knowledge in areas you don’t? Were you so threatened you couldn’t find a way to make it work? Or is he right and you never intended to keep him on at all?”

As I break off, I’m breathing hard. I’m expecting Seb to spring to some feeble defense, but he’s staring at me as though I’m talking gibberish.

“What?” he says at last.

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” I say, incensed. “I heard all about it! I know you blocked Ryan from coming to meetings. I know the staff were asking his advice. I know he could see all the flaws in your company. He’s got charisma and experience and you couldn’t cope! So you get rid of him!”

“Oh my God,” says Seb. “Oh my God.” He gets up, running his hands through his hair, walks to the window, and gives a weird laugh. “OK, where do I start? Do you know the disruption that Ryan Chalker has caused to this company? Do you know how obtuse, how stupid … how inane he is? If I had to hear one more anecdote about some tech guy in a pool in L.A.… I was going to go bonkers!” He wheels round, his face animated. “I didn’t ban him from meetings—the staff did! They petitioned me! He wouldn’t bloody shut up!”

“Maybe you didn’t listen properly!” I say defensively. “He has massive experience—”

“In what?” says Seb incredulously. “Eating lunch at Nobu? Because that’s all he ever talked about.”

“OK,” I say tightly. “Well, you were clearly never going to give him a chance. He was right. You never even tried to make it work.”

“I didn’t try?” Seb sounds outraged. “Here’s what I did. I gave him a mentor. I gave him advice. I sent him on training days. I discussed financial exams with him. And what does he do? Mock our ethos. Derail every meeting he goes to. Name-drop us all to death, fail to complete a single one of the assignments I actually gave him … and start sleeping with not one but two members of my staff! Not one, but two!” He clutches his hair. “It’s been turmoil here! One found out about the other; we’ve had tears at meetings—” He stops and peers at me. “Wait. You’ve gone very pale. Are you OK?”

I’m staring back at him, my head thudding. Did he just say—

He didn’t— He couldn’t have—

“Wh-what do you mean?” I say at last. “Sleeping with who? Who do you mean?”

“I don’t think it’s relevant who they were,” says Seb, eyeing me curiously. “I’ve been too indiscreet already.”

“I don’t believe you.” My voice shakes. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me? Why on earth wouldn’t you—” Seb sounds incredulous—then his face suddenly changes. “Oh strewth. Are you and Ryan … You’re not—” He breaks off, looking agonized. “He said he was single. He told the whole office he was a single guy. I would never have … I’m sorry. That was …”

He stops again, as though he doesn’t know how to finish, and there’s silence.

My eyes are hot. My gaze is flitting around the office. I can’t look at him. I’m thinking: He’s lying. He’s lying.

But I’m also thinking: Why would he lie? Why would he lie?

I’m remembering all the times Ryan was “too tired” for sex. And how understanding I was. How I made him lamb hot pot and rubbed his back and thought, Give it time.

Have I been the biggest, stupidest fool in the world? Did I want the famous Ryan Chalker so badly, I blinded myself to the facts?

“Can I just ask a question?” I manage at last. “Do your staff play pool together three times a week?”

“Three times a week?” Seb seems taken aback. “No! Not that I know of. Maybe once a month. Why?”

“No reason.” I swallow hard. I’m trying to stay composed, even as everything comes crashing down inside me. Ryan wasn’t playing pool. He was with other women. Maybe that Erica he kept talking about. He never wanted to be cozy and intimate and domesticated. I was a free meal and a back rub twice a week.

At last, Seb moves forward a step. I shoot a glance at him and see a troubled, earnest gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But that man is … He’s not good. In my opinion. How long have you known him?”

“All my life,” I retort roughly. “Since I was ten.”

“Ah.” His face crinkles in an expression I can’t read.

“We were only in a casual thing,” I say quickly. “It was no big deal. So.”

But it’s far too little, far too late. I can tell from Seb’s face that he knows I’m devastated. His woodland eyes are alive with sympathy. His brow is furrowed with pity for me. I can’t stand it.

“Anyway. Clearly Ryan and you didn’t work out professionally. Which is a shame. Thank you for explaining it all to me.” I gather my coat and bag with trembling hands.

“Fixie, I’m so sorry.” Seb is watching me. “I didn’t mean— I had no idea—”

“Of course not!” My voice is shrill. “And that’s not why—I simply wanted to find out what had gone wrong professionally with you and Ryan. I was simply interested. You did me a favor, and it went wrong so—” I break off as a new thought hits me. “You did me a favor,” I repeat more slowly. “You hired Ryan. And your company suffered as a result. So now I owe you one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Seb with a short laugh. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do.”

“You don’t! Fixie, we’re even.”

I can sense his eyes trying to meet mine, his smile trying to lighten things, but I can’t be lightened. I’m heavy and sad and there are tears gathering behind my eyes.

I grab the coffee sleeve, not meeting his eye, and take a pen from his desk. Underneath the Paid I wrote before, I scribble some new words:

I owe you one and I’ll never be able to pay you back. So. Sorry about that.

I sign it, then drop the pen down.

“Bye,” I say, and I turn and go. I can hear Seb saying something else, calling something, but I don’t stop to listen. I need to leave.

—

By the time I get back to Acton, I feel exhausted. I’ve tried out every phrase in my head, every accusation. I feel as though I’ve had about six rows with Ryan already.

I’m already mentally batting away the patronizing response that I know will come my way. He’ll try to look all surprised, like I’m being possessive and unreasonable. He’ll say, “Fixie, I said we shouldn’t rush things, remember?” The thought makes my heart pump with outrage. Not rushing things is not the same as sleeping with two other women on the side. It is not.

When I think how I believed his version of everything, how I rationalized everything he said and did, I feel warm with stupidity. But he was so convincing.

Wasn’t he?

Or maybe I just wanted to believe him, a little voice says in my head. Maybe I ignored what I didn’t want to see. Painful realizations are filling my head, one after another, till I close my eyes to escape them. I can’t think about all my mistakes now. It is what it is.

The party is pretty much over as I burst back into the shop. None of the staff are left, nor Hannah. Leila is sitting on a chair, scrolling through her phone, and Jake is talking to some jowly guy in a pink shirt, but I can’t see Ryan anywhere.

“Oh, Fixie,” says Leila, looking up. “There you are.”

“Where’s Ryan?” I demand, and Leila opens her eyes wide in astonishment.

“Didn’t he tell you? Hasn’t he texted? He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“He went to catch a train. He’s staying with his cousin in … Leicester?” She crinkles her brow. “Something like that. The Midlands, anyway. He says there are more opportunities for him outside London.”

“The Midlands?” I stare at her. This makes no sense. He can’t have just left.

“I said to him, ‘What about Fixie?’ but he said you’d understand and you’d talked about it and everything.” Leila looks innocently at me. “He said you’d be OK.”

We’d talked about it? That’s what he said? But that’s—

And suddenly I can’t believe I’ve fallen for anything Ryan’s said, ever. He’s just a lie machine. That’s what he is, and it’s taken me this long to work it out.

“He was in a real mood,” adds Leila regretfully. “He kept saying there was nothing for him in London anymore. He was telling us all about losing his job. You know, that Seb guy sounds awful.” She surveys me with her doe-like mascaraed eyes. “You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

I stare at her, barely hearing the question. I’m still a bit dazed. Ryan has lied about everything and now he’s gone and I don’t even get to have it out with him. My pent-up rage and humiliation have nowhere to go except right back into my heart.

“What’s he like?” Leila persists, and I blink at her, coming to. “Is he as bad as Ryan says? Because he sounds like a monster!”

I flash back to Seb in his office. Gazing at me with those troubled eyes, understanding everything. His tactful words. His hair askew. His remorse at having upset me. Trying to cheer me up. Telling me we’re even.

I’m suddenly gripped by a wish. I wish … I wish …

But I can’t finish the thought. I don’t quite know what I wish. Just that things weren’t like this.

“Seb?” I say at last, and exhale long and hard. “He’s not that bad. No. He’s … he’s not that bad.”