I Owe You One: A Novel

Twenty-one

Days turn into a week, then two … and it seems as if I’ve always been in Seb’s life. I stay every night at his place, popping back now and then for another supply of clothes. I’m barely at home anymore. I’m barely conscious of the world. I’m intoxicated by Seb. By his body and his mind. His voice and his laugh. The touch of him in the morning; the sound of his breathing at night.

When I’m not with him, I’m yearning for him. Everything else has receded. All the problems I used to have seem a little blurry—nothing except Seb seems that important anymore.

I smile at customers who put items back in the wrong place. I laugh when Stacey arrives at work late. I find Greg’s idiosyncrasies funny. Why shouldn’t he show off his double-jointed thumbs to customers when they’re trying to pay? The world is a wonderful place. I skive off a little—not much, just the odd afternoon or morning—so I can meet Seb out of work, or cook for him, or lie in bed with him for a delicious half hour longer.

The more I get to know him, the better I like him. His thoughts are straightforward. His take on life is wry but optimistic. We’ve talked for hours, and I haven’t once winced or frowned or thought, He thinks what? So many guys seem great until you actually find out what’s inside their brain, whereupon you run for cover, panting, “Oh my God, lucky escape!” to yourself. But I’ve spent two weeks exploring Seb’s brain and I haven’t stumbled on any gnarly knots of anger or walls of arrogance. Nor has he told any tasteless jokes and expected me to fall about in hysterics.

The only trip wire—the only one—is his brother’s stuff. His brother’s room. That whole situation. A couple of times I’ve suggested helping him sort out the magazines and he’s batted me away. Once or twice I’ve mentioned James’s room in passing and he’s changed the subject.

Then one day, when he was out, I took the key—it’s on a hook in the kitchen; it’s not hidden away—and very quickly opened the door and peeped inside.

I think I’d imagined a neatly kept bedroom with a few pieces of memorabilia around the place. I hadn’t imagined what I saw: a shambolically untidy, dusty room, with a screensaver still alive on the computer screen and a wizened apple core on the desk and a recycling bin overflowing with empty water bottles and the duvet rumpled as though it hadn’t been touched since—

Then I realized the truth. It hasn’t been touched since.

I stood there for a while, very still, my head teeming with thoughts. Then I locked the door again and put the key back in the kitchen. I was remembering Seb’s resolutely calm, almost upbeat demeanor when he talked about his family. The words he said, almost like a mantra: “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’ve moved on, I’m at peace with it.”

At peace? With a dusty room that hasn’t been touched for two years and is locked away from view?

That evening I plucked up courage and ventured, “Seb, about your brother. You said you were at peace with … what happened.”

“I am,” he said, so convincingly that he would fool anyone. Except a girl who can’t leave things alone.

“Right. Great!” I hesitated, then forced myself to press on: “I mean, maybe one day you should clear up those magazines. And … will that room stay locked forever?”

For a few moments Seb was silent, turned away from me, but when at last he glanced over his shoulder it was with a sunny smile.

“I know. I’m going to do it. It’s not a big deal, really, just haven’t got round to it. So, more important, what are we going to have with this fish?”

Not a big deal?

Part of me longed to push him even further, but a wiser part told myself to leave it for now. So I moved onto the subject of salad, and I could see Seb relaxing.

Now I know him better, I’ve realized that he gets a look when you talk about his brother. Not stressed exactly but alert, like an anxious dog on the lookout for danger. And it breaks my heart a little—but I know that if I go blundering in too roughly, I’ll ruin everything.

So, for the first time in my life, I’m not rushing in. I’m not trying to fix it all straightaway. I’m biding my time. It’s nearly killing me, but I’m doing it.

And this is the only issue that bothers me. Apart from that, I’m walking around in a bubble of dazed, wondering bliss. Every morning I wake up and it’s the opposite of realizing I have the dentist. It’s realizing I don’t have the dentist but I do have the best guy in the world sleeping next to me. Nothing else matters.

Until one morning, as I’m arriving at the shop, my electronic calendar sends me an alert—Family Meeting—and I realize with a jolt that it’s tonight. I stare at the words, blinking back into reality, looking around the shop as though for the first time. Shit. I’ve been asleep on the job. There were things I planned to do for this meeting. I’ve been so swept up, I’ve let my concentration lapse. I’ve let everything lapse.

My thoughts swoop guiltily to Mum. I missed a call from her yesterday and I meant to call back, but I never did. Hastily I dial her number, but it goes to voicemail.

“Hi, Mum!” I say. “It’s Fixie calling you back; hope everything’s good … we’re all well … I’ll try you again soon. Take care, love you.”

I’m not going to tell her about Seb yet. And certainly not on voicemail.

As I tap my code into the till, I’m cursing myself. There was so much I was going to do before this meeting. I was going to read through all Bob’s emails, for a start. He sends us regular financial summaries, and I wanted to have all that information up my sleeve. I was going to research competitors’ websites. I was going to get exact sales figures on all of Jake’s new stock.

I’m humming with frustration at myself as Morag approaches me, tucking her hair nervously behind her ear.

“Fixie,” she says. “Can I have a word before we open?”

“Oh,” I say. “Yes, of course!”

I turn toward her, but for a few moments she doesn’t speak. She’s looking over my shoulder, her cheeks turning pink.

“I’ve been interviewing for other jobs,” she says at last. “I’ve had an offer from that big homewares place in Kew. Suttons. And I’m thinking of taking it.”

For a full half minute I can’t speak.

Morag wants to leave?

“Morag …” I falter at last. I’m so shocked, I can’t even frame any words.

“It’s not what I wanted.” Her mouth is tight, as though she’s trying not to show that she’s upset. “You know I love Farrs, you know that, Fixie. But …” She trails off, and I can hear that there are about a million unsaid words in that but.

“Can you tell me what …” I rub my face, trying to keep my breath steady. But now that my initial shock has died down, panic is swooping in. I can’t lose Morag, I can’t. “Could you tell me your main issues?”

“Oh, Fixie, love, you know the issues.” She exhales unsteadily. “This place has changed. Half the displays have disappeared, I don’t know what we’re supposed to be selling, all the customers are complaining.…” She shakes her head. “The Christmas-cookie promotion day was a disaster! There simply wasn’t enough stock!”

“I know,” I say with a flash of painful remembrance. “Jake wanted to promote those neon novelty lamps.”

I don’t even want to think about the neon lamps. Jake landed them on us and we’ve only sold one—and it’s already been returned.

“Yes, well.” Morag’s expression tells me what she thinks of that. “And I’ve just had to cancel Cake Club for the third time—”

“The third time?” I stare at her. “Wait. I’ve missed this. What happened?”

“Nicole, of course! It’s always Nicole. A mindfulness session it was, this time. Well, all I’ll say is, do her ‘mindfulness’ friends ever come and buy so much as a whisk? Do they?” There are little red spots on Morag’s cheeks, and I realize how angry and offended she is and how I’ve been sleepwalking my way into a total disaster.

Mum, I suddenly think. What’s Mum going to say? And my stomach spasms with fresh terror, mixed with fury at myself.

“Morag,” I say desperately. “We love you. Please don’t go.”

“Suttons have said they’ll give me a regular space for the Cake Club,” says Morag, not meeting my eye. “They want to make it bigger, serve drinks, do live Internet events, whatever that is.… I don’t want to leave,” she says, her voice sharpening with distress. “None of us do. But—”

“None of us?” I echo stupidly. “What—”

“All the Cake Club members have said they’ll come with me. They’ll come to events at Suttons. It’s not too far.”

There’s a prickling silence. The subtext is obvious: They’ll do all their shopping at Suttons too.

Fear is knotting round my throat. Mum trusted us with the shop and we’ve lost our best member of staff, plus our core customers. And I know Mum put us all in charge, but I can’t help feeling responsible. I swallow hard a few times, trying to get my thoughts straight.

“You haven’t accepted Suttons yet?”

“I’ve told them I need to think.” She finally meets my gaze, her eyes sorrowful yet resolute. “But, Fixie, there’s not much to think about.”

“Morag, let me fix this.” My words come tumbling out. “Please. Let me at least come to you with a proposal. Give me forty-eight hours to … to sort it out.”

“All right,” says Morag, and she pats my arm before she walks away. But I can see she hasn’t changed her mind.

For the rest of the morning I’m in a kind of internal frenzy. I deal with customers pleasantly—but inside I’m churning. I keep thinking, How did I let this happen? I keep looking around the shop, trying to see it through Mum’s eyes. And when I do, a slightly cold feeling comes over me. It doesn’t look right. It doesn’t look Farrs.

I’m going to have it out with Nicole tonight. And Jake. I’m going to insist on a few things. Those garden lanterns have got to go. We need all our display tables back. Nicole needs to realize we’re not a yoga center, we’re a shop. I’m going to be stern, implacable …

But, oh God.

Even as I’m having these thoughts, I know I’ll let myself down. My voice will shake. I’ll stutter and flush. The ravens will flap and I’ll crumble.

On impulse, I head to the back room and dial Seb’s number. When he answers, I launch straight in: “Seb, I don’t know what to do, I have to read the riot act to Jake and Nicole tonight, but I always let myself down, I get so nervous I can’t even speak, but I have to speak—”

I break off, realizing I don’t even know what I want; I just needed to share all this with him.

“Hey!” says Seb gently. “Fixie, don’t worry. You’ve got this.” And he sounds so sure, my confidence zooms up again. Maybe I have got this. “You want me to come over for lunch? Have a sandwich, talk it through?”

—

It hadn’t occurred to me that no one at Farrs has met Seb yet. As he walks into the shop in his smart coat and kisses me, right in front of everyone, I’m aware of all the staff turning to gawp at us, in a totally unprofessional way, and I can’t help feeling proud. He looks properly handsome, his face all flushed from the cold.

“So, this is Farrs,” he says, looking around. “It’s fantastic!”

I want to say, “It’s not; it’s underperforming and it’s all my fault,” but that can wait till lunch.

“Hello, welcome to Farrs,” says Stacey, sidling up and batting her eyelashes at Seb. “Any … needs I can help you with?”

I hide a spark of frustration. Stacey must not pause suggestively before saying the word needs. I’ve told her that before. And has she unbuttoned her top?

“I’m fine,” says Seb, smiling at her. “Thanks.”

“Funny story,” says Greg, coming forward and surveying Seb with his prominent eyes. “Fixie once brought a boyfriend here and he was trying to show off with the knives and he chopped his finger off.”

There’s a stunned silence. I glance at Seb, and I can see he’s trying to think of a reply.

Oh God, if Morag leaves, how am I going to stay sane, even?

“That’s not really a funny story, is it, Greg?” I say, trying to sound relaxed while killing him with my eyes. “And it was only a tiny slice. He hardly needed to go to hospital.”

“Well, we all laughed,” says Greg with a shrug. “Didn’t last,” he says to Seb. “Don’t even remember his name now. Oh yeah, I do—Matthew McConnell.”

“OK!” I say shrilly. “Well, we’d better get going; see you later, guys.…”

I grab Seb, hustle him out of the shop, and only breathe out once we’re safely on the pavement. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly.” His eyes crinkle in amusement. “They’re great.”

“They’re all deranged.”

“They watch out for you. I like that.” He squeezes my hand. “Now, come on. Let me buy you lunch.”

There’s a sandwich shop opposite Farrs, and it’s too freezing to venture any farther, so we duck in there and find a tiny table at the back, where no one can overhear us.

“So.” Seb spreads his hands, when we’re sitting down with our paninis. “You need to take charge. Sounds like a good idea to me. What’s the problem?”

“It’s Jake,” I say miserably. “He just … I just … He affects me. I need to make my case really strongly and I’m afraid that when it comes to it, I won’t.” I tug at the corner of my panini and nibble at the piece of bread.

“OK,” says Seb. “Let’s go back to the beginning. Why does Jake freak you out so much, and how?”

He looks like he really wants to know, and I’m tired of only telling half the story. So this time I go right back to our childhood, to Jake’s personality, to the way I always felt inferior to both my siblings. I talk about how my skating sucked up Mum’s attention, how my failed business sucked up Mum’s money, and how bad I felt about both of those.

And then I talk about how I feel today. The guilt. The inadequacy. My faltering voice. The ravens that flap about my face.

Seb listens silently. Occasionally his face flinches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I have thoughts,” I conclude despairingly. “I have arguments. I can see them there, as if they’re in a thought bubble. But I can’t get them out of the thought bubble and into the air.”

Seb’s eyebrows are knitted together in a thoughtful frown. Then he looks directly at me and says, “You’re being too gentle. You need to punch through the bubble. Are you angry with your brother?”

“I am,” I say after a pause. “But I feel guilty too. I mean, he can be nice when he wants to be—”

“That wasn’t the question,” says Seb, cutting me off. “Are you angry with him?”

“Yes,” I admit. “Yes, I am. I’m angry.”

“Well, use that anger.” He leans forward, his face animated. “Feel it. Punch your way out of the bubble like a … a ninja.”

“A ninja?” I can’t help laughing.

“Yes! You have the words, you have the ideas; I know you do. You’re bright and dynamic and basically the best person I know, and to be honest the idea that some brother of yours is making you feel the way you do makes me feel pretty livid myself. I’ve only met the guy briefly, but …”

Seb smiles, but his jaw is tight and his hand has clenched hard around his panini.

“OK, I’ll be a ninja.” I stir my coffee round, gazing into the whirlpool, trying to find some strength. “I get so nervous, though. How do you do it?”

“How do I do what?” Seb seems surprised.

“You speak up at shareholders’ meetings and people shout at you and you don’t seem to care.”

“I guess I think about why I’m speaking,” says Seb thoughtfully. “Who I’m speaking for. Who I represent. I’m speaking for people who don’t have a voice, and that inspires me. That powers me along.”

He bites into his panini, then nods at me. “Eat,” he says. “Ninjas need strength.”

I take a bite of my panini, and as I’m chewing, I feel a backbone growing inside me. I’m going to speak up for Mum. She’s the one I represent. She’s the one who doesn’t have a voice right now. And that’s going to power me along.

For the rest of the lunch, we talk about general stuff, but as we’re saying goodbye, Seb holds me by both arms and looks directly into my face.

“Ninja Fixie,” he says. “You can do it.”

He kisses me and walks away, his breath a trail of steam in the winter’s air, and I tell myself firmly, I can do this, I can do this. I can.

—

All afternoon, my jaw is firm. My mind is set. I’m going to do it. I’m going to have my say.

I stay late, wandering around the displays when everyone else has gone, remembering how I used to come to Farrs when I was a little girl and it seemed enormous. I remember hiding in cardboard boxes in the back room, and Dad “finding” me. I remember trips to the storage facility being the most exciting thing in the world. I remember breaking a plate when I was seven and being terrified and trying to mend it with Sellotape—until Mum found me, crouched behind a display, and scooped me in for a hug.

This place is my life.

There’s a sound at the door and I look up in surprise to see Bob coming in, wrapped up against the cold in his usual beige anorak, plus a scarf and woolly hat.

“Fixie!” he says. “I hoped you’d still be around. I left my pullover here yesterday.” He clicks his tongue in mild self-reproach. “I’m seeing my sister tonight, and she gave it to me for my birthday, so I want to wear it, of course. We always give each other M&S pullovers,” he adds. “You can’t go wrong, can you?”

“No,” I agree. “You can’t go wrong.”

I wait for him to pop into the back room and retrieve the pullover. Then, as he’s walking toward me, I say impulsively, “Bob, are we OK?”

“OK?” Bob instinctively glances around, as though I meant, “Bob, are we facing imminent attack?”

“OK,” I repeat. “Financially. I know you send me figures all the time, but I don’t always … I mean, recently …” I stop feebly, not wanting to admit the truth, which is: “I’ve been too wrapped up in my new love affair to look at any figures.”

Bob puffs out air, as though considering what to say, and I feel a sudden pang of dread.

“We’re OK,” he says at last. “Not bad. It’s not a disaster.”

It’s not a disaster?

I stare at him, trying not to look as stricken I feel. I was hoping for better than “It’s not a disaster.”

“Sales aren’t as good as last year, no one can deny that, but there’s a while before Christmas, so it’s still all to play for. I’m sure you’ve got lots up your sleeve,” Bob adds encouragingly, and his optimism makes me feel warm with shame. “What we really need,” he adds, as though getting to the nub of the issue, “is a bit of an upswing.”

We need a bit of an upswing. How are we going to get an upswing?

“Thanks, Bob.” I try to sound breezy, as though getting worrying news is something I deal with in my stride. “Great. Good to know. So. We’ll … work on that.”

“One thing I was wondering about, though …” Bob takes a few steps toward me, with an odd expression I can’t quite read. “These loans we’ve been making. Will this be a regular thing?”

“What loans?”

“These loans to Jake.”

The world seems to slide beneath my feet.

“What … loans to Jake?” I manage to say lightly. “I don’t … I don’t know about those, I don’t think.”

“Ah,” says Bob after a pause. “I wondered. Three bank transfers I’ve made to him since your mum left. Quite big sums.” Bob gives an awkward laugh, but his eyes are troubled. “I know your mum okayed the first one, but the last two have just been on Jake’s say-so.”

“Jake’s say-so?” I echo incredulously.

“Well, your uncle Ned confirmed it and told me not to bother your mum about it. He was quite firm on that. And obviously it’s none of my beeswax, it’s a family thing, it’s not for me to …” He takes a step backward, his eyes raised to the ceiling as though emphasizing his position, not in the family. “But like I say, it’s quite a lot of money, so I’d have thought you’d be in the loop, Fixie.”

I can’t reply. My head feels like it’s imploding. Jake’s been borrowing money from Farrs without even telling Mum? I suddenly remember him coming into the shop that time. Asking where Bob was but not telling me why. Obsessed by his phone. I remember thinking that he’s always been about more, Jake. I wondered how he was paying for it all. Well, now I know.

“Only there hasn’t been any talk of repayment, so to speak,” Bob adds distantly. “If this happens every month, it’ll make quite a hole in the books. And if your mum was looking to sell, then … Well. It’s not the best time to be losing all this cash. Although as I say, none of my beeswax.”

Finally he lowers his gaze to meet mine. I’ve known Bob a long time and I know what his kindly eyes are saying. They’re saying, “This isn’t right.” They’re saying, “Do something.”

“Right,” I manage. “Well … thanks, Bob. Thanks.” I start to walk away, then come back as a thought hits me. “Why didn’t Uncle Ned want to bother Mum?”

“Oh …” Bob’s eyes slide away again to the ceiling. “Your uncle likes feeling he’s got the power, I think. Some people are like that.”

This is so daring and disloyal a thing for Bob to say that I stare at him.

“He helped out with the lease,” I say automatically, because that’s what we always say about Uncle Ned. “He got us good terms.”

There’s a long silence. I can see a kind of ripple effect on Bob’s face. As if he’s trying to hold something back. Oh my God.

“Didn’t he?” I whisper.

“Your mum was touched that your uncle stepped in,” says Bob at last. “She kept saying, ‘Oh, Bob, he’s such a rock.’ I wasn’t going to mess that up.” His gentle eyes meet mine in a smile. “I’m fond of your mum.”

I feel like everything’s shifting in my brain.

“Bob,” I say bluntly. “Tell me the truth. Who really negotiated the lease?”

“Your uncle made a call or two,” says Bob after a pause. “Didn’t really help things along.” He gives a gentle, reminiscent laugh. “He put his foot in it, to tell you the truth. Insulted the lady at the property company.”

“So it was you who got us that great deal.”

“They were good terms, yes,” says Bob, with the barest hint of pride. “It was the least I could do for your dad.”

I rub my head, feeling suddenly almost tearful. “Bob … I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing to say,” Bob replies in his mild way. “I was pleased to do it. If you do speak to your mum,” he adds, “give her my regards.”

I watch as he makes his way out of the shop, his shoes squeaking on the floor. I half want to run after him and beg for more advice—but he’s done more than enough. He’s gone the extra mile. Now it’s my turn to go the extra mile. But in which direction?

My brain is boiling over with new information. With worry. With indecision. At last I start dialing Mum’s number, then stop, then start again. Not because I’m going to rat on Jake, but because I need to know, I need facts. What’s going on?

“Hello! Fixie?” a cheery familiar voice answers. “That you, love?”

“Hi, Aunty Karen,” I say, trying to sound relaxed and calm. “Is Mum there, by any chance?”

“Oh, darling, she’s fast asleep. Feeling a bit poorly. She’s come down with a virus or something. Overdid it with our trip to Granada, probably. We only got back last night. Oh, Fixie, it’s fabulous! The tiles!”

“What about Mum?” I say anxiously. “Is she OK?”

“I’ll take her to the doctor tomorrow,” says Aunty Karen reassuringly. “If they don’t give her any medication, I know where I can get some, dirt cheap. Now, love, I’m trying to persuade your mum to stay with me for Christmas. You wouldn’t mind, would you? You’re all grown-ups. Probably off doing your own thing!”

I stare at the phone, dismayed. Christmas without Mum? Without Mum?

I’ve always assumed she’ll be home by then. I’ve always had that thought there in my mind, like an anchor: Mum’ll be home.

“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound as hollow as I feel. “Well … you know. Mum should do what she wants.”

“That’s what I said!” cries Aunty Karen triumphantly. “I said, ‘You relax, Joanne! I’ll cook, and it’s eggnog all the way!’ ”

“Well, give her my love,” I say, forcing a bright tone. “I hope she gets better soon. Keep me posted. And let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Of course,” says Aunty Karen comfortably. “And are you all OK? Jake? Nicole?”

“Yes, we’re fine.”

“Oh, and how’s the shop?” she adds. “I know your mum’ll ask me. She’ll say, ‘Didn’t you ask about the shop, Karen? How could you not ask about the shop?’ She loves that shop like another child!”

Aunty Karen hoots with laughter and I look around at the shop that Mum loves so much, feeling even more hollow.

“It’s … great!” I say. “All good.”

“Marvelous. Well, take care, Fixie!”

“You too,” I say, and ring off feeling like I always do after conversations with Aunty Karen: as though a tornado has blown away.

So that road is closed. I’m not bothering Mum about Jake, not when she’s ill. I’m going to have to do this on my own.

Come on, Fixie. Come on.

I catch sight of my own reflection in the shop-front glass and do a sudden impulsive front kick, punching the air like a kickboxer. Then I do another, then another, moving forward, panting a little with the effort. My chin is jutting out and my expression is fierce and I probably look like an idiot—but I don’t care. I feel stronger with every kick. I can do this.

Ninja Fixie. Bring it on.