I Owe You One: A Novel

Twenty-five

Jake’s on Gingerbread Man duty. Ten hours a day, he stands outside Farrs, dressed in a Gingerbread Man suit, calling, “Come on in! Gingerbread houses at Farrs! Christmas decorations at Farrs! Biscuit cutters at Farrs! Ho ho ho!” He has flyers to hand out and samples of gingerbread and special-offer coupons.

He wasn’t supposed to be doing it all day—I originally planned for us to do shifts. But we were trying to sort it out at a staff meeting, and everyone was arguing about what times they wanted, when Jake suddenly said, “OK, enough. I’m Gingerbread Guy. End of.”

We all stared at him and I said, “All day long?” Whereupon he said, deadpan, “Beats hanging around in store with you lot.” And after a moment (when we were sure he was joking), we all laughed.

Now that Jake’s relaxed a bit, now that he’s not chasing millions and just working at Farrs every day, he’s actually quite cheerful. He’s funny. He and Stacey have a good line in banter, and Greg keeps trying to get him to start a Staff Mixed Martial Arts Group, with a membership of two: Jake and Greg. (Bob said no.)

“So you basically want to beat me up, Greg,” Jake said at last, and Greg got all bulgy-eyed and said that was a complete misunderstanding of the skills and artistry of MMA, while Jake winked at me.

As for his Gingerbread Man skills, it turns out they’re great! The promotion is working better than I could have dreamed: The gingerbread houses are flying off the shelves, along with all the Christmas baking equipment. Morag—our new director—sat down with me one evening and we completely refreshed our stock. We went out on a limb on a few festive items that we both felt instinctively were right—and they’ve totally outperformed. The mixing bowl decorated with gingerbread men sells out as soon as we put it on the shelves, and the holly-leaf version is nearly as popular. In fact, we’ve had to start waiting lists.

It’s three weeks since Bob’s gloomy assessment, and even he blinked in surprise as he came in last Saturday. The place was buzzing. Jake was calling out, “Get your gingerbread house! Three for two on gift wrap!” Nicole was assisting Morag with a children’s table decoration activity, while their parents all browsed the shop. There was a happy hum of chatter and the tills were bleeping nonstop. We won’t know till January how everything’s shaken down, but it’s looking OK. It’s looking better.

To be fair, Nicole and Jake have both worked their socks off. We’ve run as many late-night shopping events as we can, with different themes and promotions. It’s been pretty exhausting, and we’ve had to reprioritize a bit. The house is a mess, the kitchen is a tip, we haven’t even thought about our own Christmas, and we’re all a bit frazzled … but it’s worth it.

Jake even managed to be polite to the customers last night at our first-ever seniors’ event. He appeared truly delighted to see my lovely shuffly brown-mug customer, whose name turns out to be Stanley. He was also über-charming to Sheila and Sheila’s mother, aged ninety-eight, who told Jake about six times how handsome he was and how she’d always wanted a toyboy.

Morag has never looked happier—she’s got completely free rein now and is making loads of plans for the New Year. I’ve made a few plans of my own too. I’m going to launch cooking lessons for customers, once a month. I’ll call it the Dinner Party Club, to go alongside the Cake Club, and I’m already working on menus. I’ve even wondered if I might get back into a bit of catering, for customers, as a sideline. I mean, why not? Suddenly everything is feeling possible.

Meanwhile, the Farrs Instagram page has changed from pictures of Nicole to photos of customers and cakes and—my idea—Farrs’ items in funny locations around London. There’s a food mixer in a phone box and a chopping board balanced on top of a red pillar box, and Vanessa even posted a picture of a Jell-O mold on her judge’s chair in court.

As I head outside to give Jake a cup of tea, he greets me with “Five days till Christmas! Ho ho ho!” We had a small staff debate about whether ho ho ho was quite right for a gingerbread man, with Greg claiming it was copyright Santa Claus. But I thought ho ho ho sounded festive and jolly. And these days, what I say tends to go. (Then Stacey wanted to join in and found a Gingerbread Girl costume online. Oh my God. Totally inappropriate. Plus she would have got hypothermia standing out there in stockings and suspenders.)

“Here you are, Gingerbread Man,” I say, handing Jake his cup of tea.

“Gingerbread Guy,” Jake corrects me, as he always does, and I roll my eyes at him. I think Gingerbread Guy is un-Christmassy—but if he wants to be Gingerbread Guy in his own head, let him.

“Oh, I’ve got a message from Leila,” he adds. “Everyone’s invited over for drinks on Christmas Eve. Six o’clock; bring a bottle.”

A year ago, Jake would never have hosted a “bring a bottle” party. He would have been all grand and served champagne and boasted about the canapés. He’s a different person these days. Kind of chastened—but also more relaxed, as though he doesn’t need to pretend anymore. His eyes aren’t strained. He laughs more. I think Leila’s dad treats him pretty brusquely, and a few times Jake has said maybe he and Leila should move into our place.

But I think it’s great. I think Leila’s dad is exactly what Jake needs right now.

“Wonderful,” I say. “Tell Leila I’ll be there.”

“She said, if you want to bring anyone …” Jake trails off cautiously and shoots me a questioning look.

“No.” I force myself to smile. “Just me.”

I haven’t confided in Jake about Seb—our relationship hasn’t changed that much. But from his expression I’m pretty sure that Leila has filled him in.

So he’ll know that I was with Seb … and then somehow I wasn’t anymore. He’ll know how devastated I’ve been. What he won’t know is that I’ve replayed our last couple of days over in my mind almost obsessively, and I still can’t work out quite how everything disintegrated.

What happened? One minute Seb and I were happy, the next we were shouting, the next we couldn’t even look each other in the eye. All in a blink. And if I could go back, if I could only go back …

No, I tell myself furiously. Don’t think that. Seb said it himself: “You can’t go back in time and do life a different way.”

I take a piece of gingerbread from Jake’s basket and munch it, trying to get a grip on myself, but it’s not easy. Thinking about Seb and what might have been fills me with such pain I can barely breathe.

Which is why I try not to do it. But I can’t help myself.

He’s back with Briony. Which shouldn’t have shocked me but did. I discovered it from looking on Facebook a couple of weeks ago. She’d posted a picture of the pair of them, smiling at the camera, captioned: Back together after a blip, all good now!!

And my heart kind of caved in on itself.

I was the blip.

I didn’t feel like a blip. I felt like more than a blip. But there it is in black-and-white: blip. And there’s no reason whatsoever for me ever to run into Seb again—London’s a big city—so that’s it. The end. I’ll never quite know why we broke up. Or how you can be the happiest you’ve ever felt with someone and then the saddest.

“Fixie?” Jake’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and I realize my damp eyes are giving me away.

“Right. Yes. Christmas Eve! It’ll be fun!” I say, my voice a little shrill, blinking furiously. “Although I’ve got nowhere with my Christmas shopping; is there anything you want?”

We talk for a bit more, then I head back inside to the familiar colorful buzz of the shop. Morag has just found a new source of picnicware, all printed with daffodils and perfect for summer, and we’re both oohing-and-aahing over the catalog when I hear a loud, hideously familiar voice: “Can I get some service?”

My stomach plummets to the floor. For a moment I can’t even move for horror—then, very slowly, I turn my head, knowing exactly who I’m going to see.

It’s her. Whiny.

She looks spectacular. She’s in a white cable-knit turtleneck with a faux-fur vest over the top and shiny riding boots. Her skin is glowing with fake tan and her black jeans fit her snugly and her hair is all glossy under the lights.

“Oh, hi, I’d forgotten this was your place,” she drawls, her eyes running over me with gratification.

She hadn’t forgotten. I know what this is: It’s payback for the skating.

“Welcome to Farrs,” I say, feeling like a robot. “What can I get for you?”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” she says carelessly. “I’ll just browse all your little things. I haven’t even thought about Christmas yet. Seb’s such a great chef and it’s the first Christmas we’re spending together, just the two of us … so the pressure’s on!” She laughs merrily. “Seb’s so sweet, though; he keeps saying he’ll cook everything. He’s an angel.” Her eyes slide to mine. “As you know.”

As I know. Is she trying to torture me? Well, yes, of course she is.

“Stacey,” I call out, my voice husky because I’m actually finding this really difficult. “Could you … This customer needs …”

But my voice doesn’t rise above the hubbub strongly enough. Stacey’s head doesn’t turn.

“So, I’m finally moving in with him,” Briony says, as though we’re having a cozy girls’ chat over coffee. “About bloody time! I said to him, ‘Seb, we’re a couple! Let’s behave like one!’ And he agreed. He was like, ‘I’ve been a bit mad these last few weeks. I don’t know what got into me.’ And we’re off to Klosters on Boxing Day, so, you know. Back to normal.”

“Right,” I manage. My head is pounding as though I’m about to vomit, but I force my lips into a smile.

“Hi, Lucia!” Briony suddenly waves at a girl I’m sure I’ve seen in here before, with glossy blond hair to match Briony’s and a navy coat. They kiss each other and Lucia brandishes a basket cheerfully at Briony.

“I’m going to go mad,” she says. “I love this place. I come in for cling film and leave with ten bags of stuff. But why did you suggest meeting here?” she adds curiously. “I know about it, but I’m local.”

“Oh, I just heard about it,” says Briony, her eyes sliding again to mine and away again.

“If I can help you with anything, please let me know,” I say, still with my stiff, pleasant smile, then turn away.

And I know I should leave—but I can’t bring myself to. I head to a nearby display, pointlessly rearranging a row of eggcups, my ears straining to hear their conversation.

“You should have brought Seb,” Lucia is saying as she looks at serving dishes. “He’s the real chef, isn’t he? You’re so lucky.”

“Oh, he’s amazing,” agrees Briony smugly. “Makes me breakfast in bed all the time. I’m going to put on twenty pounds!”

She’s speaking far more loudly than she needs to, and, again, I know I should walk away; I need to save myself from this. But my legs just won’t do it.

“Oh well, wait till you’ve got your home gym,” says Lucia easily. “You’ll both be so buff! By the way, I can come round and help clear out that room, after all. The removers are coming at ten tomorrow, aren’t they? Will they bring boxes?”

My hand freezes over an eggcup. Removers? Are they finally clearing out that second bedroom, then? Has Briony managed to get through to Seb? Is she more sensitive than I realized? Did she succeed where I failed? I can’t help feeling a twinge of envy, which is unworthy of me. If Sebastian is moving forward, then that’s good, whoever achieved it.

“Oh, right,” says Briony, sounding a bit discomfited. “Yeah. Shall we look around?” She seems to be trying to move away, but Lucia doesn’t notice.

“Definitely,” she replies vaguely, examining a serving dish. “So, are you having a treadmill or a cross-trainer in the end? Because apparently there’s this new kind of cross-trainer …”

As Lucia babbles on, my head is churning with thoughts and questions. How did Seb come to terms with clearing out the room? Is he all right? I have to know, even if it means going through Briony to find out.

“Sorry,” I hear myself blurting out, swiveling round to face Briony. “Sorry. But I couldn’t help overhearing. Is Seb OK, then? Has he come to terms with … everything?”

The look on Lucia’s face is priceless.

“Do you two know each other?” she exclaims.

“I know Seb,” I say shortly, then address Briony again. “So he’s … he’s OK? About clearing his brother’s room?”

“He has no idea it’s happening, does he?” says Lucia, sounding surprised. “Isn’t that the whole point? He’ll arrive back and it’ll be done?”

“He has no idea?” I echo, shocked. Briony’s cheeks have the slightest tinge of pink, but her jaw is defiant.

“What else am I supposed to do?” she says. “That place is a hazard!”

“He’ll never do it for himself,” chimes in Lucia knowledgeably. “Briony’s doing him a favor. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, you know. I had to smuggle three pairs of my husband’s manky old trousers out of the house once,” she adds gaily. “Three pairs! I literally hid them in a black bin bag. He would never have got rid of them otherwise!”

I can’t find an answer. I’m quivering with distress. I want to yell, “You think this has any resemblance to three pairs of manky old trousers? Has Briony told you the actual truth about this?”

“He’ll thank me for it in the end,” says Briony, still with that edge of defiance. “Short, sharp shock. It’s the only way.”

I’m dazed by her callousness. I think of Seb arriving back to find his brother’s room cleared, with no warning. I think of him standing there, his honest warm face draining of blood … and I can’t bear it. I feel as though I’m getting a short, sharp shock myself. Except it’s not short and sharp; it’s deep and damaging and can never be undone.

And now, as I survey Briony’s beautiful, selfish face, my fingers are drumming like they’ve never drummed before. My feet are itching. There’s a weird buzzing in my head. A tension rising through me. I know it’s not my life. I know he’s not with me. I know it’s their business. But I can’t stand by. I can’t.

“Right,” I manage at last, trying to sound unconcerned. “Fair enough. Good for you. Actually … I need to go. Sorry, I’ve just remembered I have a … meeting. Enjoy the shop. Stacey!” I call, so piercingly that she turns round this time.

“Hi,” she says, sauntering over, looking Briony and Lucia up and down.

“Please show these customers around. They want to see the whole shop. The whole shop,” I add for emphasis, and I see Stacey’s sharp eyes receive the message.

“Sure thing. Let’s start with glassware; that’s at the back of the shop.…” she says, leading them away.

I grab my coat from behind the cash desk, pick up my bag, and hurry outside into the wintry street, almost bumping into Gingerbread Jake.

“Jake,” I say breathlessly. “I have to go. Take over. Please?”

“Fine,” he says, looking taken aback. “Go. Do what you have to do.” He hesitates, then adds, “You OK?”

“Of course I’m OK, why shouldn’t I be?” I retort, and Jake gives me an odd look.

“Well, you’re crying.”

I’m crying? I reach up in shock and feel the streams of tears, wet on my cheeks.

“Busted.” I manage to grin, rubbing at my face. “I’m not really OK. But I just have to … I have to do this thing.”

Jake lifts a hand in its gingerbread glove and squeezes my shoulder, tight.

“Go for it,” he says. And I nod gratefully, before turning and breaking into a run.

—

The journey is at once too long and too short. As I arrive at Seb’s office, I feel almost sick with nerves. But the thought of Briony crashing into the most sensitive part of Seb’s life makes me feel even sicker, so I steel myself and march in.

“Hi,” I say to the receptionist without preamble. “I need to see Seb. It’s urgent.”

There must be something about my face, because she hesitates, then gets up and knocks on his door, and within thirty seconds he’s coming out himself. And my legs weaken underneath me because I can’t cope with this. I thought I could, but I can’t.

I was hoping I’d see him and think, Ah, he’s not so great after all, but it’s the opposite. He’s as tall and strong and handsome as ever, his woodland eyes wary as they meet mine. I have that weird thought, just as I did in the coffee shop when I first saw him: I know you.

But I can’t know him, can I? Or I’d know why we’ve ended up like this, meeting like two stilted strangers. Didn’t he feel what I was feeling? Didn’t he feel the joy? What happened between us—what happened?

My head is tumbling with anguish, with questions … but somehow I force myself to focus. I can’t keep tormenting myself. He’s with Briony. It’s over. It’s done. You can’t go back in time and do life a different way.

And, anyway, I’m not here because of us. I’m here because of him.

“Hi, Seb,” I say, and my voice trembles, but I carry on resolutely. “There’s something … Could we talk?”

Of course,” says Seb, after a pause. “Come on in.”

He ushers me in and I sit down and for a beat there’s silence.

“Are you … How are you?” says Seb, and I can see by the way he’s sitting bolt upright, his hands making a tense pyramid on his desk, that he’s thrown off-balance.

“Fine, thanks. You?”

“Yes, I’m good.”

“Good.”

The air seems thin between us. Our words are thin. I don’t know how to proceed, how to bring up the subject. But I need to—it’s in me like a ticking time bomb—so in the end I just blurt out:

“James.”

“What?” Seb jolts as though I’ve scalded him.

“You … you never told me about James.”

I’m thinking that maybe Seb can tell me about his brother and we can move on to the subject that way—but it doesn’t work. Seb’s body language immediately crackles with tension.

“Told you about him? Why should I tell you about him?”

“No!” I backtrack. “No reason. I just meant …” I rub my nose, trying to find a different tack. “You always say that you’ve moved on and you’ve dealt with his death and you’re at peace.”

“Yes,” says Seb, his voice dangerously even. “I have. And I am. Your point is?”

“You say that clearing out his room isn’t a big deal. You say you ‘just haven’t got round to it.’ But I wondered …” I swallow several times. “I just wondered … if maybe it was quite a big deal. After all. And if you’d like some help. That’s all. That’s what I— That’s it.”

I break off into a terrible silence. Seb looks as though some sort of volcano is building inside, and I stare at him, in agonized, half-terrified dread.

“You just can’t leave things alone, can you?” he finally erupts in fury. “You have to ‘fix’ them. Jeez, I can see how you got your name now. No, I don’t need any help, thank you. I know you were always itching to get your mitts on that room, but it’s fine; it doesn’t need your interference or anybody’s. I will clear it out in my own time, in my own way. Now please get the hell out of here.”

He’s shaking with anger, and his voice is thundering around the office, and he’s such an intimidating sight, I automatically scrabble to my feet, my legs almost buckling underneath me. But he has to know. He has to.

“She’s going to clear the room,” I say desperately. “Whiny. She’s making it into a home gym. She’s booked the removers. They’re coming at ten A.M. tomorrow, and she says she’s going to chuck the lot.”

If Seb looked like a bubbling volcano a moment ago, he’s suddenly a pit. He’s empty. Hollow.

“No,” he says, as though he can’t compute what I’m saying.

“Yes. She told me.”

“She … wouldn’t …” But his voice is uncertain. As his eyes meet mine, his antagonism has gone; I can see panic growing in them. Childlike panic. And I can feel tears rising again, because doesn’t she realize?

“I know you’re with Briony,” I say hastily, my voice thick and jerky, my eyes fixed on the carpet. “I know you’re a happy couple. I’m not trying to come between you; I’m really not. And you’re right: I shouldn’t interfere. I try to fix everything and it’s my stupid flaw and I’m really sorry. I just couldn’t bear for you to come home and—” I swallow hard, unable to say it. “I just thought you should know.”

I finally dare to raise my head and Seb is staring out of the window, his jaw tight, his gaze transfixed.

“Yes,” he says tonelessly, and I don’t know what he means, but I don’t dare ask. He wraps his arms around his body as if trying to soothe himself, and I’m longing so hard to go over there, to soothe him myself …

But I have to stop thinking like that. He’s with someone. Briony’s the girlfriend. I’m the blip.

I stand motionless, my legs feeling a little firmer, watching him, hardly daring to breathe, trying to guess what’s going on in his head. I’m in no hurry. Time feels like it’s suspended.

At last he turns his head, breathes out sharply, and pushes a hand through his hair. Then he says unsteadily, “I think maybe it’s time for me to clear out my brother’s room. Today. This afternoon.”

I feel an almighty spike of shock but try to hide it. “Right,” I say. “Yes. I mean … yes. That’s a good … Yes.”

There’s another pause. My hands are clenched by my sides, my brain circling uncertainly. I can’t— I can’t offer— After everything he said, I can’t interfere—

Oh God, but it’s bigger than me. I can’t help myself.

“Would you—” I begin, my feet pacing awkwardly on the spot. “No. I shouldn’t even— I mean …” I clear my throat. “Would you like some— No.” I cut myself off. “Sorry.”

“Yes, please.” Seb’s voice takes me by surprise and he looks at me, his eyes so dark and vulnerable I catch my breath. “Yes. Please. I would.”

—

I never knew Seb’s brother, James. I never will know him. But as we sit in his room together, passing things backward and forward, trying to sort and organize, I feel I’m getting a sense of him. He was like Seb in some ways, but more idiosyncratic. He worked from home in graphic design and was super-talented. From the few things Seb says, I think he could get quite ratty when his work wasn’t going well, but he told the best jokes too.

Everything I touch tells me something about him. His hasty handwriting, barely legible, on Post-its to himself. His bags of jelly babies, piled up in the bottom drawer of his desk. Doodles that he drew with Sharpies on computer paper. One portrait of Seb makes me gasp, it’s so succinct and accurate.

“You should keep this,” I say. “You should frame it.” And Seb nods silently and puts it into the “precious pile.” We have a precious pile for the things he knows he’s going to keep (notes, drawings, James’s ancient teddy bear). And a rubbish pile for the things he knows he’s going to get rid of (socks, old bills, all those empty water bottles).

And then there’s the stuff he stares at and can’t decide. I can see it in his face—just the thought of having to decide is overwhelming. So we’re going to put that in storage bags and he can have a look in three months and see what he thinks.

That’s what Mum did. Every few months after Dad died, she processed another batch of stuff. And each time she cried a little but felt a little stronger. There wasn’t any point in her rushing it. And there’s no point in Seb rushing it.

The rest of the world has receded. Everything has shrunk to this room, with its dust motes dancing in the air and smell of the past. We both have bloodshot eyes. Each of us occasionally reaches for a tissue. Seb was first to break down, when he found a photo of him and James that he’d never seen before. He gave one almighty heartrending sob and then furiously apologized, then sobbed again. Whereupon tears rose to my eyes too and I furiously apologized. And he apologized for upsetting me. Until at last I put a hand on his arm and said, “Shall we just not apologize?”

And so we didn’t anymore.

Now I sit back on my heels and take a massive breath, sweeping my hands through my hair.

“I think we’ve done most of it. At least, you know, we’ve sorted it. Except the magazines …”

“Right.” Seb’s face twists a little. “Those. Recycling, I guess.”

“Or you could sell them? Like … an archive?”

I don’t ask if he’s going to cancel the subscriptions. I’m fairly sure I know the answer.

“We need some storage bags, or whatever,” I add, looking at the piles of stuff.

“There’s a shop round the corner.” Seb nods. “It sells those tartan ones.”

“You should have come to Farrs,” I say automatically. “We have lovely storage bags in amazing prints—” I break off, with an abashed smile. “Sorry. Can’t stop selling.”

Seb returns my smile. Then his brow suddenly crumples. “Fixie,” he says, as though only just realizing the situation. “You’ve done enough. You must surely need to go. It’s a busy time for you.”

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get the bags. Then I’ll go.”

As we step out of the building, the cold air feels refreshing, and we fall easily into step, side by side.

“Well … thank you,” says Seb, after we’ve walked for a couple of minutes. “Thank you so much. What you did today is above and beyond.”

“Don’t be silly,” I say at once. “I wanted to. As a …” I hesitate. “As a friend.”

“As a friend,” Seb echoes after a beat. “Right.”

We walk on a while longer, until we’re in a little arcade of shops, all decorated with lights and tinsel. A group of children is singing carols and we stop to listen for a bit. Then, against the background of tra-la-las, Seb says, his eyes firmly fixed forward, “So, how’s the unconditional love going?”

At once my stomach flips over. My mind swoops back to his office, to that horrible row we had about Jake. Is that his issue? That I won’t give up on my brother? That I ignored his advice and stuck by my family?

“Fine,” I say.

“Good,” he says, but his voice is tight and when I glance at him, his face is studiously blank.

I can feel the tension between us rising again, and I need to burst it, because what’s happened with Jake and me and the whole family is good. It’s good.

“People can change, you know,” I say, slightly more passionately than I intended, and I see Seb’s jawline twitch, as though this isn’t something he wants to hear. But at last he turns his head to look at me, his face pink and blue from the glow of the nearby Christmas lights.

“I’m sure. And I’m glad for you.” His face creases with some emotion I can’t read, and for an instant his eyes seem to shimmer again. “You’re … you’re quite a woman.” He takes hold of my hands and squeezes them, and I stare back breathlessly, my eyes hot again too. I can’t help it—I’m lost in his gaze.

Then the carol-singing stops and ragged applause breaks out and we both seem to snap back into reality.

“So.” Seb gives me a wry smile and releases my hands, and suddenly I can’t bear being near him anymore. I can’t bear seeing his generous, brave face, his woodland eyes, his everything … and knowing that they can’t be mine.

“So,” I say, my voice a bit gruff. “Actually, I do have some things to get done. I ought to—”

“Of course,” says Seb at once, his tone more formal, and he actually takes a step back, as though wanting to put space between us. “Of course. You’ve done far too much. Thank you a thousand times.”

“It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing.” He shakes his head. “You’ve … I don’t think I’d realized …” He meets my eyes frankly. “I can go forward now.”

“Well, good. That’s all I wanted.” I smile brightly, trying to mask the pain which I can feel coming for me like a tsunami. “Good luck with everything. With Briony, and life, and … everything.”

There’s only so long you can smile brightly at the man who has your heart but loves someone else. Already my mouth is starting to tremble.

“So … goodbye,” I say, and I’m making to leave when Seb calls out, “Wait!”

I look back and he’s reaching into his pocket and somehow I’m not surprised when he produces the coffee sleeve.

I take a step back toward him and we stand there in the street, the two of us gazing at it. The original IOU. It’s crumpled and creased now, the writing indistinct and blurred in places where we spilled wine on it in bed, and I have a sudden memory of him giving it to me in the first place.

“Stupid thing.” I try to laugh.

“Yes.” Seb nods, suddenly grave. “It is. Because if I really wrote down all the reasons I owe you, it would fill a book.”

His words take me by surprise, and for a moment I can’t answer.

“No, it wouldn’t.” I say at last, trying to be flippant but not really succeeding.

“It would. You know it would.”

“Well … me too.” My throat is tight. “I owe you too.”

“But we’re not keeping score anymore.”

“No, we’re not.”

I take the coffee sleeve from him and look at our melded scrawled writings, feeling such pangs of loss I can’t bear it. Then, on impulse, I start to rip. Once through. Twice through. I need quite a lot of force to tear the cardboard—it’s stronger than it looks—but at last it’s in pieces and I look up.

“We’re done,” I say, and Seb nods, with such a wry, sad expression I want to cry again, but I mustn’t.

“Done,” he echoes.

I run my gaze over his face one last time. Then I take a deep breath as though plunging underwater, turn, and walk swiftly away, dumping the pieces in a recycling bin as I go.