I Owe You One: A Novel

Fifteen

Except that at five the next morning I’m wide awake, knowing only one thing: I have to go and see him.

I don’t care if Briony’s by his side. I don’t care if a whole army of friends turn to stare and say, “Who are you?” I don’t even care if his colleagues whisper to each other, “It’s that awful girl who introduced Ryan to the company! Yes, her!”

By 6:00 A.M. I’ve conjured up about a million possible scenarios, each more embarrassing than the last, but I’m still resolved. I’m going. No one can stop me. I know I don’t have any actual relationship with Seb. I know I can’t even claim to be a friend. But the thing is, until I see him with my own eyes, all I can picture is crime tape and police officers and my own lurid visions of him lying on a stretcher, hovering between life and death.

I text Greg, telling him that a medical emergency has come up (true), then spend two hours agonizing over what to take. Flowers? Do guys like flowers? They might say they do, but do they actually?

No. I don’t think they do. I think guys actually like cans of beer and expensive remote controls and football games. But I can’t take any of those to a hospital bed.

Chocolates? Sweets?

But what if his mouth got bashed and he can’t eat?

My stomach gives a nasty twinge at the thought, and I shake my head to dispel my worst fears. I’ll see him soon enough. I’ll know the full picture.

Then the answer hits me: a plant! It’s uplifting and natural like flowers but not quite as frilly. And it’ll last longer. There’s bound to be a plant shop somewhere on the way.

I check the hospital website for visiting times, phone Greg to make sure he’s opened up, change my outfit three times, google plant shops, spray myself with scent, then stare at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing nothing fancy: just jeans and a nice top.

OK, my best jeans. And my nicest top. It’s chiffony and a bit dressy, with sheer sleeves. But it’s not too dressy, definitely not, it’s simply … nice. It’s a nice top.

Which is of course totally irrelevant. In sudden shame, I realize I’ve been looking at my reflection for three minutes and hastily turn away. As if what I look like matters. Come on. Time to go.

—

The nearest florist to the hospital is called Plants and Petals, and as I arrive I feel it should be hauled up for misrepresentation. There are no plants, only flowers. And those are mostly of the frilly pink variety.

“Oh, hi,” I say to the girl behind the counter. “I’m after a plant. Quite a plain plant. For a man,” I clarify. “It needs to be masculine-looking. Strong-looking.”

I’m hoping she might say, “Step this way, the masculine plants are in the back,” but she just sweeps an aimless hand around and says, “Help yourself. Carnations are half price.”

“Yes,” I say patiently, “but I don’t want carnations, I want a plant. A masculine plant.”

The girl looks blankly at me as though she has no idea what a masculine plant is. I mean, come on. Masculine plants are definitely a thing. And if they’re not, then they should be.

“Don’t you do any yuccas?” I ask. “Or really plain spider plants? You’re called Plants and Petals,” I add, almost accusingly. “Where are the plants?”

“Yeah, we don’t really do plants no more,” she says with a shrug. “Except the orchids. Very popular, the orchids.”

She points at a row of pots on a nearby shelf, each containing a single orchid. Each beautiful flower is tethered to a little wooden stake, and they look quite cool and minimal.

A guy might like an orchid. Mightn’t he?

“OK, I’ll take this one,” I say, grabbing the most minimal orchid of the lot. It has only two white blooms, with large, shell-shaped petals.

“Gift wrap?” asks the girl, beginning to pull out a sheet of iridescent pink cellophane. “You get a free ribbon,” she adds. “Pink or purple?”

“No, thanks!” I say hastily. “No gift wrap. It’s fine as it is. Thanks. Although I would like a card.”

I choose the least garish Get Well option and write:

Dear Seb

Wishing you a speedy recovery

Fixie

Then I pay for the orchid and hurry along the streets to the hospital, wishing I’d remembered my gloves. It’s bloody freezing, even though the Snowpocalypse hasn’t hit. As I reach the hospital entrance, a few shell-shaped orchid petals blow away in the breeze, and I curse myself for not asking if there was any plain cellophane.

Anyway, never mind. I’m here now.

Clutching the orchid, I head to the main desk and eventually discover that Seb is on Nelson Ward on the fourth floor. As I rise up in the crowded lift, my heart starts thudding and my hands suddenly feel a little damp.

I mean, this is a good idea, isn’t it?

“Noah!” exclaims a woman. “Leave the lady’s flower alone!”

I turn my head and to my horror see a toddler in his mother’s arms, triumphantly clutching a fistful of orchid petals.

Shit. What’s he done? There are only about six petals left on the plant now.

I whisk the orchid away out of danger and survey it anxiously. It still looks OK. It just looks even more minimal. Super-minimal.

“I’m so sorry,” says the mother, and I notice that the toddler has a cast on his foot and, really, am I going to make a fuss in a hospital? So I smile and say, “Not to worry,” and cradle the precious orchid with both arms until we reach the fourth floor.

As I reach Nelson Ward, I’m starting to lose confidence. My throat is tight with apprehension. My legs have lost their bounce. What if— What if he’s— Oh God, what if— My head is looping around all kinds of disastrous possibilities, and a large part of me wants to run away and forget it.

But somehow I force myself to walk forward, ask a nurse for Sebastian Marlowe, and make my way to his cubicle. He’s in a ward of four beds, and his is at the far end. As I approach, it’s fully screened by a printed curtain.

“Knock knock,” I say, my voice a bit shaky. “Are you there, Seb? It’s Fixie.”

There’s no reply, so I peep round the curtain, and there he is. Alone. And asleep.

I survey him silently, my heart thumping in reflexive terror, which gradually subsides. His face is bruised. His hair has been shaved a little at the temple, and he’s got a dressing there that makes me wince. One of his ankles is strapped up in a bandage, I notice. But he doesn’t seem to be on life support or anything like that. My stomach gives the most almighty lurch of relief, and without meaning to, I exhale hugely. He’s OK. He’s alive.

There’s another reason for my relief, I realize: He’s asleep. I don’t have to talk to him. Because suddenly I feel incredibly nervous and I’m not sure what I would say. Maybe my best plan is: Leave the orchid and card—then back out of his life altogether. Yes.

Trying to be absolutely soundless, I tiptoe around his bed to his nightstand. I prop the card against the wall—then as it slips, I grab at it, bumping against his water jug, which tilts. In silent dismay, I grab for the jug to right it, then realize I’ve knocked his plastic glass, shit …

Desperately I grab for the glass, then realize I’m dropping my orchid and grasp for that too, at which point the glass falls on the floor with a loud clatter, and Seb opens his eyes.

Shit.

He stares at me for about twenty seconds as though he can’t compute anything, and I stare back, agonized, wondering where to start.

“Your name is Sebastian,” I say at last, in slow, careful tones.

“I know that!” he says. His eyes travel down the hospital bed, taking in his injured ankle, and I see the click of remembrance in his face. “Right,” he says. “Right. Yes.” He’s silent for a moment, then his eyes meet mine again. “Was it you? Who called 999?”

“Yes,” I admit. “It was me. I know you didn’t want me to, but … well, I told you, I can’t help fixing things!” I give a high, fake laugh, trying to mask my awkwardness. “Usually turns out badly, but …”

“It didn’t turn out badly,” he says slowly. “It would have turned out badly, if …” He halts again, and his woodland eyes turn dark as though with thoughts he’s not going to share.

“Well. I did.” I give another awkward laugh.

“Yes.” His eyes fix on me again, then his face jerks. “I’m so sorry!” he says. “Where are my manners? Sit down, please.”

“Thanks,” I say, a little shyly, and sit on the plastic visitor’s chair. “Oh. This is for you.”

I proffer the orchid, which I’ve been holding all this while. But as he takes it, I realize in horror that my hand has been wrapped tightly around the remaining delicate petals, and they’ve all come off in my hand.

I’ve basically given him a bare twig in a pot.

“Wow,” says Seb, surveying the twig confusedly. “That’s … lovely.”

And now he’s being nice about it. I can’t bear it.

“It’s supposed to have these on it,” I say quickly, opening my hand to show him the crumpled white petals. “It was an orchid, but it had a few accidents. This is what it looked like …”

I try to demonstrate where the petals should go, but I keep dropping them, and at last I look up to see Seb clamping his lips together as though he’s trying not to laugh.

“No, it’s great,” he says hurriedly as he catches my eye. “It was great. I can see that.”

“Maybe they’ll grow back,” I say in lame hope.

“Yes, definitely. I’ll keep watering it.” He pats it, his eyes distant for a moment, then adds matter-of-factly, “You saved my life.”

I stare at him, jolted. I mean, yes, I called 999. But saved his life?

“I’m sure I didn’t,” I say.

“You saved my life,” he repeats. “And I want to thank you.”

“I didn’t save your life!” I say, totally embarrassed. “Honestly! All I did was … You know. I made one call. I thought you should have medical attention. That’s all. It was nothing. If I hadn’t called, someone else would have— Can I pour you a glass of water?”

“What they said to me,” Seb continues, ignoring my attempt to deflect him, “was that if you hadn’t called, no one might have noticed me in that alley. Apparently I was covered in a mound of litter, behind a bin. I might not have regained consciousness. It was one of the coldest nights of the year. Hypothermia. Kills people every winter.” He meets my gaze again, his eyes unreadable. “So. Life. Saved. And again: Thank you.”

“Well.” I feel a tingle rise up my cheeks. “I just … Anyone would have … What happened, though?” I can’t help asking. “You were fine. You were talking. And then you were out cold.”

“The guys who’d had a go at me came back,” says Seb, his face twisting up as though with a memory he doesn’t want to have. “Or maybe it was a different lot. As they say, didn’t see them coming. Knocked me out.”

I don’t know how to reply. I survey Seb’s injuries anew and feel tears of anger coming to my eyes. Seb is a good guy. He should not be hurt by anyone.

“Anyway, I owe you one,” Seb adds with a wry smile.

“You really don’t.” I smile back, relieved that he’s not looking quite so grave anymore.

“I really do,” he contradicts me. “Although how I ever pay that one back, God only knows.”

“Buy me a drink.” I shrug. “I’m a cheap date.” As soon as I say the words I realize with horror how they might sound. “I mean … Not …” I flounder hopelessly. “Not date. I meant …”

“I know what you meant,” says Seb, looking amused.

“How’s Briony?” I add quickly, to send the message: I know you have a girlfriend. “I expect she’s on her way. I’ll leave as soon as … She must have been shocked.”

“She’s in Amsterdam on a business trip,” says Seb. “Gets back tomorrow. We talked about her getting a flight today,” he adds, as though reading my mind, “but there’s no need for her to cut her trip short. I’m fine here, and it’s a pretty important conference for her.”

“Right,” I say, nodding. “Absolutely. Makes more sense.”

I’m not going to judge Whiny. I’m not.

But really? A conference? When he nearly died?

“Fair enough,” I add for good measure, to make it plain that I’m not casting any aspersions. “Let me pour you that water.”

As I hand him the glass, Seb has a quizzical look to his eyes and I have a horrible feeling he’s remembering all the rude things I said about Briony that night at 6 Folds Place. Quick, let’s move on to another topic.

“Anyway, the police were there,” I say. “So let’s hope they catch whoever did this.”

“Unlikely,” says Seb. “But, yes, let’s hope.” Then his expression changes. “Wait, you went there? To the alley itself?”

“Oh,” I say, flustered. I hadn’t intended to let that slip out. “Well … yes. Just to check the ambulance had got there. It was practically on my way,” I add quickly.

“No, it wasn’t,” says Seb, his face crinkling with some emotion I can’t read. “You really are my guardian angel.”

“Hardly! So … how long will you have to stay in?”

“Only a day or two,” says Seb. “It was the head injury they were worried about. But as you see, I’m completely all there, totally normal.” He suddenly pulls a grotesque face and I can’t help giggling.

There’s silence for a while, and we listen to the visitors in the next cubicle, who are saying things like, “You can hardly tell,” and “It’s not much of a scar,” and “You’ll soon be right as rain, Geoff!” in eager, overlapping voices.

“That guy was mugged too,” says Seb conversationally, gesturing at the curtain, and I wince. “You know, I’m a liberal kind of guy, but I find myself feeling … what would I call it? Vengeful.” He smiles enough that I know he’s joking, but his voice is dry enough that I know he’s kind of not joking too.

“I’m not surprised,” I say lightly, determined to keep the conversation upbeat. “Will you turn into a vigilante?”

“Maybe,” says Seb, giving a bark of laughter. “You’ll see me on the evening news, wearing my tights and mask, brandishing—what? Lead piping?”

“A candlestick,” I suggest, and we both smile again.

“Are you a vengeful person?” Seb asks, taking a sip of water. “You seem like a person who doesn’t bear grudges.”

“I guess I don’t, really,” I say after a moment’s thought. “Except once, and that was two years ago and I still bear the grudge.”

“Tell me,” says Seb, his eyes lighting up with interest.

“It’s a stupid story,” I say, feeling embarrassed.

“I love stupid stories,” says Seb firmly. “And I’m an invalid and I need entertaining. Tell.”

“Well … OK. Two years ago I set up this catering firm, and I had a girl who did the admin. Sarah Bates-Wilson.”

“She sounds like a villainess,” says Seb obligingly.

“Good. Because she is. She was always helping herself to stuff on my desk. Like, pens or whatever. And one day she borrowed my hairbrush.”

“Heinous!” says Seb.

“Stop it!” I say, laughing. “I haven’t finished yet. It was this really nice tortoiseshell brush from a set that my mum and dad gave me. You know. Brush, comb, mirror. It went together.”

“And she never gave you the brush back,” suggests Seb.

“Exactly. First she said she hadn’t taken it, then she said she’d given it back.… Anyway, one day I went round to her house.”

“For a hairbrush?”

“I really wanted it!” I say defensively. “It was a matching set! She lived in a ground-floor flat, so first of all I crept round the back and I looked in her bedroom window and I could see it. I could actually see it on her chest of drawers!” My voice rises with indignation.

“So what happened?” demands Seb.

“I rang the bell and she answered in her PJs and said she hadn’t got it and told me to leave. So I had to go.”

“No!” exclaims Seb, sounding genuinely outraged.

“Exactly! So then I thought, I’ll take a picture of it through the window and prove it’s there. But by the time I got back, it had gone. She must have hidden it.”

“OK, that’s creepy,” says Seb firmly. “Really creepy. Was she still working for you?”

“No, not by then.”

“Thank God. She sounds like a sociopath.”

“I wouldn’t have minded, except it was a present from Mum and Dad, and since Dad was gone …” I trail away. “You don’t want to lose stuff like that.”

“Of course.” Seb’s eyes soften. “I’m only teasing. I’d have been livid. And you don’t need to explain about the matching set either. We always had this wonderful family story that my great-great-grandfather had an antique chess set. One Christmas Eve, a queen was stolen and a ransom note was left in its place.”

“A ransom note?” I can’t help a giggle.

“It demanded two pounds, to be left inside the grandfather clock. I guess that was a pretty big sum back then. The only people in the house were my great-great-grandfather, his wife, and their four sons, aged between twelve and twenty-three. It could have been any of them.”

“So what happened?” I ask, agog.

“Apparently my great-great-grandfather paid the ransom, the piece reappeared, and no one ever said anything about it.”

“What?” I stare at him. “OK, that is so not what would have happened in our family. Didn’t your great-great-granddad want to know who it was? Didn’t he want to catch them? Didn’t he want to find out why they were kidnapping chess pieces?”

Seb thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “I think he just really wanted his chess piece back.”

“Wow,” I say incredulously. “Families are the weirdest—” I stop as I suddenly remember. “Sorry.” I bite my lip. “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“I know about—” I swallow, searching for words. “Your family. What happened.”

I have no idea how to put it and I know I’m messing up, but Seb lets me off the hook.

“I’ve been unlucky,” he says, in his straightforward, honest way. “Unlucky. At least, when it comes to my family.” He breathes out and I catch a fleeting pain in his eyes. “But please don’t apologize.”

“Hey, Seb! Man! What did they do to you?”

The curtain swishes back and the face of a guy in his twenties peers in.

“Andy!” exclaims Seb, his face lighting up.

“Oh,” says Andy, looking at me. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m here with the guys,” he adds to Seb. “You like all varieties of Krispy Kreme, right? Because we had a row in the shop.”

“I should be going,” I say hurriedly.

“Don’t on our account,” says Andy with a friendly smile. “Have a Krispy Kreme.”

“No, I need to go. Thanks, though.”

“We’ll let you say goodbye, then,” says Andy, withdrawing from the cubicle, and I get to my feet.

“So … get well,” I say to Seb, feeling suddenly awkward.

“Thanks for coming.” His eyes crinkle at me in a smile. “Thanks for everything.” Then a thought seems to strike him. “Hey. Have you still got the coffee sleeve? Because I need to make a new entry.”

“You don’t.” I shake my head, laughing.

“I do! I want to record my debt of gratitude. Have you still got it?”

“I think so,” I say, wrinkling my brow as though I’m not sure. “I think it’s somewhere around. I could come and see you again tomorrow, maybe?” I add casually. “Bring it in?”

“I’d like that.” He nods. “In fact, I’d love that. If you’re not too busy.”

“Of course not.” I pick up my bag. “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“With the coffee sleeve,” he insists.

“OK.” I nod, rolling my eyes with a smile. “If I can find it.”

Of course I can find it. It’s on my dressing table, right where I can look at it every day.

The three guys waiting patiently outside the cubicle smile at me politely, clearly wondering who I am. I recognize one of them from Seb’s office and fervently hope he doesn’t recognize me.

I walk away through the ward, listening to their voices as they greet Seb:

“Oh my God.”

“Man! They really got to you.”

“Yeah, but you should see how they look. Right, Seb?”

They sound so easy and affectionate, I can’t help smiling inwardly. And as I’m traveling back down in the lift, I remember all the stories I read online about Seb building up his company, cooking pasta for his staff, creating the amazing atmosphere that he’s got. He needed to make a family, I realize. And that’s what his company is, his family.

—

The next day I wake at 5:00 A.M. again. I really need to break this habit. My eyes instantly swivel to the coffee sleeve, propped up on my dressing table, and I feel a little flutter inside. The kind of light, excited flutter I haven’t felt since …

Oh God. Since Ryan, now I come to think of it. I feel about sixteen years old. This is kind of mortifying.

As I’m showering, I give myself a stern talking-to. This guy is taken. He’s simply being friendly in a platonic way. There’s absolutely no hint that … I mean, if there is any hint, it’s me reading too much into things … And anyway, he’s taken. He’s taken.

I step out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel, and look at my reflection, trying to find some inner resolve. What I should do now is quietly bow out. I should phone up the ward with a friendly excuse, wishing him well and saying goodbye. Certainly not prolonging this back-and-forth IOU game we seem to be in. It’s inappropriate. It’s gone on for long enough. What I need to do is nix it. Throw the coffee sleeve away. Get on with my life. That’s what I should do.

And as I look into my own alert, exhilarated eyes, I know that’s pretty much exactly what I’m not going to do.

After breakfast I get ready with care, putting on a dress I got in a cheap and cheerful Acton boutique the other day. It’s navy with a print of dachshunds all over it, and it makes me smile. I was going to keep it for parties, but suddenly that seems boring. Why not wear it now? Today? I do my makeup, text Greg to make sure he’s on the case, and pick up my bag to go.

Then I pick up the coffee sleeve. I run my eyes down the entries. His writing … mine … his … For a moment I hesitate. Then, almost defiantly, I pop it into my bag and head out.

Seb is awake as I arrive and greets me with a smile. He already looks a million times better than yesterday, with more color in his cheeks—although some of his bruises are turning lurid. He sees me eyeing them and laughs.

“Don’t worry. They’ll go.”

“How are you feeling?” I say as I sit down.

“Great!” he says. “I’m out of here tomorrow. And I get free crutches, so it’s not all bad. Did you bring the coffee sleeve?” he adds. “Tell me you did.”

“I did.” I can’t help smiling at his enthusiasm and produce it from my handbag. Seb takes a pen from the nightstand and writes carefully on the coffee sleeve, then hands it to me with a grin.

“Read it when you get home.”

I’m dying to read it now, but obediently I put the coffee sleeve away in my handbag. Then I reach into my canvas tote, produce a flat box, and hand it to him, feeling a little nervous.

“I brought you something, in case you get bored. It’s a chess set,” I add idiotically, as though he can’t read Chess Set. “I mean, it’s nothing special, it’s only cheap.…”

“This is great.” Seb’s face glows. “Thank you! Can you play?”

“No,” I admit. “No idea.”

“OK, I’ll teach you. We’d better clear these away,” he adds, gesturing at the newspapers littering his bed. “A nurse kindly procured them for me, but there’s only so many articles you can read about aliens.”

“Isn’t it extraordinary?” I agree, with a laugh, as I start folding the newspapers up. The whole media has exploded over some guy who “saw a UFO” in his garden last night and videoed it.

“D’you think when presidents get elected, one of the first things they do is write their speech for when aliens land?” muses Seb as he unpacks the chessboard.

“Yes!” I say, delighted by this idea. “Of course they do. And they practice it in the mirror. ‘My fellow humans, on this epic day, as I stand here, humble yet brave … ’ ”

“I bet Obama had a great one prepared,” says Seb. “I almost wish we’d been invaded by Martians, just so I could have heard it.” He looks at the piece in his hand. “OK. So, introduction to chess.”

Seb lays out all the chess pieces and starts explaining how one type goes forward and another goes diagonally and another hops around. And I do try to concentrate, but I’m fairly distracted by … well, by him. By his focused expression. His strong hands moving the pieces around. The passion he clearly feels for the game. “This is an interesting maneuver,” he keeps telling me, and I can’t admit that I’ve lost all track of everything he’s told me.

“So,” he says at last. “Shall we play?”

“Yes!” I say, because what’s the worst that can happen, I lose? “You go first.”

Seb puts the pieces in order again and moves a pawn. Promptly I copy what he did with one of mine. Then he moves a something-else, and I make a mirror-image move.

“So basically I can keep copying you,” I say.

“No, no!” Seb shakes his head. “You should experiment! Like, that knight?” He points to the horse. “That could go to all sorts of places.” I pick up the knight and he puts his hand over mine. “So it could go there … or there …”

I’m feeling a bit breathless as he moves my hand around the board, and I’m about to ask him, “What about the queen?” when there’s a jangle of curtain rings and a resounding, confident voice exclaims, “Seb!” and my heart stops.

It’s her. Briony.

I yank my hand out of Seb’s so quickly I send half the chess pieces flying, and Seb looks a little flustered and says, “Briony! I thought you weren’t back till— Hi!”

Briony takes a couple of steps toward the bed and I can see her eyes moving over us rapidly, zooming in on every detail.

“I was just—” I begin, as Seb says, “This is Fixie. The one who made the 999 call. Saved my bacon.”

“Oh, you’re that girl,” says Briony, and her demeanor instantly changes. “Thank you so much. We’re so grateful. God, Seb, your face,” she adds, with a moue of distaste. “Will it scar?”

“No,” says Seb easily, “shouldn’t do,” and I see something instantly relax in Briony’s expression.

Is that what she was worried about? Whether his face would scar?

“We need to get this better, though,” she says, patting his ankle. “What about Klosters?”

“I know!” Seb shakes his head ruefully. “The one year we’re organized and book ahead— Skiing,” he adds to me.

“Of course!” I nod heartily.

“Got you a card,” Briony says, handing him a postcard—and as he reads it he bursts into laughter. I can’t see what it says. Maybe it’s some private joke or whatever.

I’m feeling waves of disappointment and I’m hating myself for it. I mean, what was I hoping? That they wouldn’t get on? Of course they get on. Maybe they have the odd row, but they’re both tall and sporty and joke around and make one of those great couples you see in the street and say, “What a great couple.”

“So,” I say, scrabbling for my bag. “I ought to be going …”

“Chess!” exclaims Briony, her eyes lighting upon the board. “Excellent!”

“Fixie brought that too,” says Seb.

“So kind,” says Briony. “How did she know we’re both mad about chess?”

“Lucky guess,” I say with an awkward laugh. “Anyway, get well soon, Seb. Bye.”

I grasp his hand briefly in a weird kind of half shake, avoiding his gaze, then get to my feet.

“Thanks again, Fixie,” says Seb, and I mumble something indistinct in reply.

“Yes, thank you so much,” says Briony in her penetrating, confident voice. She’s not being Mean Newsreader anymore; she’s being Elegant Duchess. “We’re both incredibly grateful. Let me see you out,” she adds in a hostess-like manner, as though she owns the ward and the hospital and, in fact, everything.

We both walk to the door of the ward, whereupon Briony says again, “We’re so grateful,” and I murmur, “Honestly, it was nothing.”

As we reach the double doors, her eye falls on my dog-print dress and she says with interest, “That’s Aura Fortuna, isn’t it?”

“What?” I say blankly.

“The iconic print,” she says, as though it’s obvious. “Except … shouldn’t the dogs have hats on?” She looks even more closely at the fabric. “Oh, wait. It’s a knockoff, isn’t it?”

“Er … dunno,” I say, confused. I’ve never heard of Aura Fortuna. Or any iconic print. I just saw the dress and I liked the dogs.

“Hmm,” says Briony in kind, pitying tones. “I kind of think if you’re not going to do it properly, you shouldn’t even try?”

Her words are like a stinging slap. I can’t even think of how to respond.

“Right,” I say at last. “Well … nice to meet you.”

“You too.” Briony clasps both my hands with a final, wide smile, which clearly reads: “Go away and stay away.” She closes with, “And as I say, thank you so much. You did a wonderful job and we’re both so grateful to you.”

My face is burning with mortification all the way down in the lift. But by the time I’m pushing my way out into the freezing air, I’m seeing the funny side of it.

Kind of.

I mean, you have to see the funny side of things, otherwise … what? You start brooding morosely on why he’s with someone so blinkered, and what does he see in her, and how can anyone be that rude, and …

Oh God. I am brooding morosely. Stop it, Fixie.

A thought suddenly occurs to me and I pull out the coffee sleeve. I know it’s only a silly game, I know it’s meaningless, but I might as well see what he wrote. I pause in the street, breathing out steam in the cold air and reading his handwritten words:

You saved my life, Fixie. To repay you that is impossible. Just know that from now on I owe you everything.

And underneath is his signature.

I read the words twice over, hearing his voice in my head, seeing his warm, honest smile in my mind’s eye. My eyes become a little hot. Then I shove the coffee sleeve back in my bag and stride on, down the pavement, shaking my head almost angrily. Enough. It’s all stupid. I need to forget about it.