I Owe You One: A Novel

Eight

After Mum and Aunty Karen have left the next afternoon, everything feels flat. Jake and Leila disappear off to the pub and I decide to make a Bolognese for supper, because that’s what Mum would do. But even as I’m cooking, it isn’t the same. I’m not filling the house with the same magical, Mum-like atmosphere. I don’t feel warm or cozy or reassured.

To be honest, it’s not just because Mum’s gone that I feel so flat. It’s that I haven’t heard from or seen Ryan since the party. Not a visit, not a phone call, just a single text: Sorry about your mum.

The day after the party, he went to Sonning to visit his family, and then it was as if he’d disappeared into a black hole. He didn’t reply to any of my texts. A couple of times Jake said, “Ryan says hi,” and that was the sum total of our communication. To be honest, I didn’t mind too much. He wasn’t the priority; Mum was. But now I can’t help thinking: What happened?

I stare at the pan dispiritedly and give it a stir—then turn it off. I’ll pop out for some ice cream. You can’t go wrong with Ben & Jerry’s when you need a pick-me-up.

As I’m hurrying along the High Street, I see a guy with frondy hair walking ahead of me, with a brisk determined stride. At once I think, Is that the guy from the coffee shop? Followed by, No, don’t be silly, it can’t be.

Odd that my mind has instantly gone there, though. And even odder that I’m faintly blushing. What’s that about? I haven’t even thought about him since that day.

Well, OK, maybe I have, once or twice. Just his eyes. There was something about his eyes. I’ve found myself picturing them now and then—that flecked, leafy green-brown color.

The man ahead of me stops to consult his phone and I catch sight of his face—and it is him! It’s Sebastian … whatever he’s called. He glances up and sees me approaching—and at once his face creases into a smile of recognition.

“Oh, hello!” he says.

“Hi!” I come to a halt. “How are you?” I meet his woodlandy gaze—then quickly look away again before I overdo the eye contact.

“Good! Just waiting for a cab.” He gestures at his phone, and I see the map of a cab-company app.

“Back in Acton!” I say. “Or are you local?”

“No. I’ve been here for …” He hesitates. “A thing.”

“Oh, right,” I say politely, because it’s none of my business—and it feels as though the conversation should perhaps end there. But Sebastian’s face is animated; his brow is creasing up; he seems like he wants to share his thoughts.

“As it happens, I’ve been consulting ‘the skiing workout guru,’ ” he suddenly says, making quote marks with his fingers. “Did you know that the skiing workout guru lives in Acton?”

“No,” I say, smiling. “I didn’t even know the skiing workout guru existed.” I nearly add, “I’ve never skied in my life,” but I can tell Sebastian is on a roll.

“Nor did I, till my girlfriend gave me two vouchers for my birthday and insisted I go to see him. So I went. Twice.”

“Right. And how was he?”

“Absolute rubbish!” exclaims Sebastian indignantly. “I’m offended by how rubbish he was. I’m shocked!”

His outrage is so comical, I break into laughter—although I can tell there’s genuine grievance there too.

“How was he rubbish?” I can’t help asking.

“The first session, all he did was describe how he won a bronze in Vancouver. Today he described how he just missed a bronze in Sochi. I could have got that off Wikipedia in five minutes, if I were interested, which I’m not.”

I can’t help laughing again. “What about exercises?”

“He revealed the insightful information that lunges are a good idea and suggested I come back twice a week for the next six months.”

“What a rip-off!” I say in heartfelt tones.

“Exactly!” exclaims Sebastian. “I’m glad you agree. I’m sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.” He glances at the map on his phone and I see an icon of a cab coming up the High Street. “Anyway, enough of that. How’s life been treating you?”

I open my mouth to say, “Fine,” but it doesn’t seem honest, somehow.

“Actually, my mum’s been in hospital,” I say instead.

“Oh no.” He looks up from his phone in dismay. “And here I am going on … Is there anything I can do?”

This is such a kind, ludicrous instinct that I can’t help smiling again. What on earth could he do?

“It’s fine. She’s better. She’s off on holiday.”

“Oh good,” he says—and he really seems to mean it. At that moment a minicab pulls up and he signals to the driver. “This is me,” he says. “Nice to see you again.”

“Bye,” I say, as he opens the car door. “I’m sorry Acton hasn’t been kind to you. Collapsing ceilings and dodgy workout gurus. We must do better.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” he says with a grin. “Acton has a place in my heart.”

“We do have an amazing Thai restaurant here,” I say. “If you’re into Thai food.”

“I love Thai food.” His eyes crinkle at me. “Thanks for the tip. Oh, and remember.” He pauses, his hand on the car door. “I still owe you one. I’m serious. You haven’t forgotten?”

“Of course not!” I say. “How could I?”

I watch as the cab drives off, still smiling at his good-humored outrage—then head on my way.

—

The little exchange has buoyed my spirits, but as I get back to the house I start to feel flat again. I reheat the pasta sauce, inhaling the delicious scent, then put on The Archers, because that’s what Mum would do too—but it feels fake. I don’t listen to The Archers, so I don’t know who any of the characters are.

“Hey, Fixie.” Nicole wanders into the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts. I’m hoping she’s going to offer to help, but she doesn’t even seem to have noticed that I’m cooking. She leans against the counter, picks up the chunk of Parmesan I was about to grate, and starts to nibble it. “So I’ve had a great idea,” she says thoughtfully. “I think we should have yoga at the shop.”

“Yoga?” I echo. “What do you mean? Like … a yoga section?”

“Yoga sessions,” she says, as though it’s obvious. “We should run sessions in the evenings. I could do them.”

I put my wooden spoon down on Mum’s bunny-rabbit ceramic spoon rest (£6.99, bestseller at Easter) and peer at her to see if she’s joking. But she meets my gaze with a full-on, Nicole-taking-herself-seriously expression. The thing about Nicole is, she’s all vague and wafty until she wants something, whereupon she can suddenly become quite gimletty and focused.

“Nicole, we’re a shop,” I say carefully. “We sell saucepans. We don’t do yoga.”

“We have the Cake Club,” she counters.

“Yes, but that’s a selling event. We sell cake tins and stuff. It enhances our business.”

“Loads of shops do all sorts of evening events,” she responds. “It would build up the clientele.”

“But where?”

I’m picturing the shop, trying to imagine even two people putting down yoga mats, and I’m failing.

“We’d have to move a few things,” she says breezily. “Get rid of a couple of displays.”

“Every night? And then put them back?”

“Of course not!” She rolls her eyes. “Permanently. There’s too much stock, anyway. Even Mum says so. It’s overcrowded.”

“We can’t get rid of whole displays of stock to make space for yoga lessons!” I say in horror.

“Well, that’s your opinion,” says Nicole calmly.

“What about the cleaners? They start at six P.M. When would they get in?”

Nicole stares at me blankly as though she never even realized the shop gets cleaned every night.

Oh my God. She didn’t realize the shop gets cleaned, did she? She lives on another planet.

“We’d sort it,” she says at last with a shrug. “Like we do on Cake Club night.”

“OK,” I say, trying to be positive. “Well, would you sell any stock?”

“We’d be doing yoga,” says Nicole, frowning. “Not selling things.”

“But—”

“You’re trying to find problems, Fixie,” she adds.

“So Mum only left, what”—I look at my watch—“four hours ago. And already you want to change things.”

“You should be more open-minded!” retaliates Nicole. “I bet if I rang Mum now, she’d love the idea.”

“She would not!” I say hotly. I feel so sure of myself, I almost want to dial Mum’s number and prove it. But of course I won’t.

“You should do yoga yourself.” Nicole eyes me dispassionately. “Your breathing is really shallow. Look.” She points at my chest. “It’s stressing you out.”

I want to retort, “It’s not my breathing that’s stressing me out!” But the thought of Mum stops me. She’d be really upset to think that within hours of her departure, we were arguing about the shop. So somehow I force myself to take a deep breath.

“Well, this is what the family meetings are for,” I say as reasonably as I can. “We’ll put it on the agenda and discuss it.”

Uncle Ned and Jake will never go for yoga classes. It’ll all be fine.

“Could you do the spaghetti?” I add, and Nicole replies, “Sure,” in an absent tone. She wanders to the larder, now engrossed in her phone, gets out the spaghetti packet, and stands motionless for a bit while I count out forks.

“Nicole?” I prompt her.

“Oh. Yeah.” She gets out a saucepan and puts it on the hob, then peers at the spaghetti. “How much, do you think?”

“Well, there’s going to be four of us.”

“Right,” says Nicole, still peering at the packet. “The thing is, I never know with spaghetti.”

“Well, you know. It’s basically a clump for each person.”

I text Leila—Supper in about 10—and lay out water glasses. Then I glance at Nicole. She’s taken out a bunch of spaghetti and is looking at it, her brow wrinkled. For God’s sake. She hasn’t even put the water on.

I fill the pan with water, add salt, whack up the heat on the hob, and take the spaghetti from Nicole’s hands.

“I’ll do it,” I say. “You know we’ve actually got a spaghetti measurer? You know we stock them in the shop?”

I show her the spoon with the special hole in it, and she opens her eyes wide and says, “No way. I never knew that was for measuring spaghetti! You’re so good at all that, Fixie.”

As I start to measure out the spaghetti into the boiling water, she wafts out of the kitchen without asking if she can do anything else to help, bumping into Leila on the way.

“Fixie!” says Leila in excitement. “Guess who’s here.” She hurries forward and smooths down my hair, then produces a lip gloss from nowhere and slicks it across my lips.

“Huh?” I stare at her in puzzlement.

“Ryan!” she whispers.

“What?” I feel my eyes widen. But before I can say anything else, I hear Jake saying, “Come on in, we’ll have some grub.” And I force myself to leave it a full five seconds before I swivel round to see Ryan. Here. In our kitchen.

He’s as tall and blond and dazzling as ever. His easy smile has gone, though. His face is tired-looking and there’s a crease in his brow.

“Hi, Fixie,” he says vacantly. “All right?”

“Here.” Jake is already pouring him a glass of wine. “Drown your sorrows, mate. Ryan’s eating with us,” he adds to me.

“Right,” I manage. “Lovely!”

My stomach is flipping over. My thoughts are on a circular loop: He’s here! Where’s he been? Why does he look so down? Why hasn’t he texted? Is he with someone else? He’s here!

“I hope you like spaghetti,” I say in bright, fake tones.

“Yeah,” Ryan says, and takes a gulp of wine. “Great.” He stares into the distance for a moment or two, then seems to see me for the first time. “Hey. Let me say hello properly.”

He comes over and kisses me on the mouth.

“Sorry I haven’t been in touch,” he murmurs. “I know you’ve had it hard with your mum in hospital and everything. Thought you wouldn’t want me in your way.”

“Oh,” I say, a bit disconcerted. “Right.”

“I know what it’s like when people barge in,” he adds. “I didn’t want to intrude. I thought: Give them some space.”

I have a couple of replies at the tip of my tongue: “It wouldn’t have been intruding.” Or: “You could at least have texted.” I suddenly recall Sebastian’s instant kind response: “Is there anything I can do?” And he doesn’t even know me.

But then … everyone’s different. People don’t know how to react to things. Especially medical emergencies. Hannah came along to the hospital and sat with me in the ward and googled everything the doctor said … but that’s her.

I must be giving away some of what I’m thinking, because Ryan is scanning my face closely.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he says, looking stricken. “I guess I panicked. I drew away. But that was wrong, wasn’t it? You think I’m a total shit now.”

“No!” I say quickly. “Of course not! It’s been fine, really. And Mum’s gone off on holiday, so … all good.” I smile to reassure him—but he still looks despairing.

“Everything’s so messed up right now,” he says. “So messed up.”

He drains his glass, leans against the wall, and heaves a huge, heavy sigh.

“Oh, Ryan,” says Leila sympathetically. “It’ll all work out.”

“What’s up?” I say anxiously.

“Headhunters.” Ryan shakes his head.

The spaghetti suddenly boils over and I hastily grab the pan. I want to hear more about this, but I also want the spaghetti to be al dente.

“Sit down, everyone,” I say. “I’ll dole this out. Jake, can you get Nicole?”

“I’ll help,” says Leila, reaching for the plates.

We serve out the food and Jake fills everyone’s wineglass, and Nicole slides into her chair, and as I look around the table, I feel a small tweak of pride. Here we are, anyway, eating together as a family. We will be OK with Mum away, we will.

“So what happened with the headhunters?” I say warily to Ryan, and Leila winces.

“Five years’ experience in the film industry,” says Ryan blankly. “I mean, you’d think …” He forks spaghetti into his mouth. “No, I don’t have any experience in fucking … widgets. No, I don’t have any professional qualifications. No, I’m not … what is it, digitally literate.” He gulps his wine. “But I have experience. I know about deals. I know about people. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Haven’t they found anything at all for you?” I venture.

“Oh, they talk the talk. They say, ‘Yeah, we can place you straightaway, a talented guy like you, no problem!’ But you know where they want to place me?”

“Um … no.”

“A call center.”

“A call center?” I echo, aghast.

“It’s a bloody insult,” chimes in Jake hotly, and I feel a kind of warmth that for once we’re agreeing on something.

“What kind of call center?” I ask, because I can’t get my head round this at all.

“Selling …” He pauses, his spaghetti quivering on his fork. “I don’t even know what it was. Some weird insurance. No salary, just commission. I didn’t stay to find out. So then at the next headhunter I go, ‘Look, no call centers,’ and they say, ‘No problem. We’ll find you something.’ It’s bollocks. They’ve got nothing.”

“It’s tough.” Jake grimaces. “Most companies are shedding people at the moment, not taking them on.”

“So what are you going to do?” I say anxiously.

“Who knows?” He’s silent awhile, absently chewing. “At least in L.A.… I get L.A. I know I’ve messed up there, but at least … You get to know a place, for better or for worse. You understand how it works. Whereas starting again in London … I dunno. London’s changed. It’s brutal.”

It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying.

“You can’t go back to L.A.!” I say in dismay. “You said you never wanted to see the place again!”

“I can’t carry on like this, though, can I? I can’t keep on camping at Jake’s.”

“It’s no sweat!” says Jake, but Ryan shakes his head.

“What about your mum?” says Nicole. “Could you stay with her?”

“Not really.” He looks even more bleak. “Not with my stepdad there. We don’t get on. It’s hard. Mum and I used to be so close, you know?”

I feel a huge wash of sympathy for him. I can’t imagine what it would be like if Mum married someone we didn’t get on with. I’m also longing to say, “Move in here! There’s plenty of room!” But that might be too pushy.

“You’ll find something!” I say encouragingly. “There are other headhunters … there must be loads of opportunities. You said you were willing to start at a more junior level—”

“Yeah, I told them that. I said, ‘What about fast-track schemes, whatever?’ And they go, ‘Well, are you a graduate?’ ”

There’s a prickly silence around the table, broken by Nicole saying with vague interest, “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you dropped out of uni, Ryan.”

Typical Nicole to spell out what we’re all thinking. Although, actually, I’d forgotten that Ryan dropped out too. It’s so long ago now, and it didn’t seem to matter, once he was in Hollywood, being the big success. But I guess it matters if you want to join a graduate scheme.

“Maybe you could finish your degree?” I suggest warily, even though I’m fairly sure that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Sod that,” Ryan says vehemently. “Either people understand what I have to offer or forget it.”

There’s such a miserable edge to his voice, I wince. It must be hard. I mean, rejection is hard whoever you are—but he’s Ryan Chalker! At school, he was the One. Maybe he wasn’t on the school council, or top at math, but he was still the One. Coolest boy. Golden boy. He had “success story” written all over him. So how can he be in this situation? Can’t these headhunters see his star quality? I feel so sorry for him. And I don’t blame him for lashing out. He’s like a wounded lion.

After we’ve finished eating, Nicole disappears upstairs to watch her Netflix show. Leila goes to get Jake’s cigarettes out of the car and I clear the plates, preoccupied. I want to solve this. A job. What job could Ryan get? I scrape the plates and stack the dishwasher, thinking: A job … a job … a job …

And then it comes to me. Oh my God! I have heard about a job recently. In Café Allegro. That conversation Sebastian was having, before the ceiling fell in.

As I close the dishwasher, I’m trying frantically to remember everything I overheard. He wanted someone bright and savvy and tough … someone with experience of the world.… He didn’t care about degrees.… Yes! It couldn’t be more perfect!

“Ryan!” I exclaim in excitement. “I’ve remembered, I heard about a job the other day. Exactly the kind of thing you want. You don’t need any qualifications, you just need some sense.…”

“What job?” says Jake with a laugh. “Flipping burgers?”

“It’s investment management,” I say, ignoring Jake. “It’s this company who are sick of clever-clever people. They want savvy people who’ve been in the real world. Well, that’s you!”

“Investment management?” Jake stares at me, flabbergasted. “How do you know anything about investment management?”

“I happened to hear about it.” I address Ryan. “What do you think?”

“You’re sweet to try,” he says without even turning his head. “But that’s, like, the most competitive field going. There’s no way an investment manager’s going to give me a job. I’ve got no degree, no experience—”

“They don’t care about that. If I find out the name of the company, we can look them up. There’ll be an application form. I’m sure you’d be in with a chance—”

“Fixie, stop!” Ryan lifts a hand, sounding almost angry. “Do you know the level of competition out there? Math graduates? Clever kids who can code and all that?”

“You don’t understand!” I say eagerly. “I overheard the guy talking. I got the inside scoop! They don’t want people with a million degrees. Look, I’ll get the name of the company and you can google them.”

I hurry into the hall and reach into my bag. The coffee-cup sleeve is still there, the business card still pinned to it with my Anna’s Accessories hair clip. I carry them both into the kitchen, reading out the name of the company.

“Ethical Sense Investment Management. ESIM. There you go.” I reach for my laptop, type the name into Google, and a moment later I’m looking at a familiar frondy-haired face. Sebastian Marlowe. Founder and CEO.

“They’re based in Farringdon.” I scan the opening paragraph. “Ethically led investment.”

“What the fuck is that?” Jake snorts.

“Don’t you want something a bit ethical, for a change?” I say to Ryan, ignoring Jake. “Anyway, look, here’s the job!” I’ve already clicked on Vacancies and found it: Trainee Researcher. “Applications are still being accepted for this post,” I read out loud. “Candidates are likely to have a business or finance degree; however, this is not necessary. An appropriate background in business will be taken into account. You see?”

“Trainee.” Ryan wrinkles his nose. “Like, intern?”

“You’ll be fine, mate.” Jake gives a short laugh. “Mine’s a flat white, and be quick about it.”

“It’s not an internship,” I say hastily. “But, I mean, you’ll have to be trained, won’t you?”

“Paying how much?” Ryan frowns at the screen.

“Does that matter?” I say. “It’s a foot in the door, isn’t it? I think it sounds really exciting!”

There’s silence for a few moments. I was hoping Ryan’s face would break into a joyful smile or he might even hug me. But he’s still reading the job description, his brow furrowed.

“Dunno,” he says at last. “I dunno. I need a proper job, not some crummy internship. I mean, in L.A. I employed interns.”

“Yes, but—” I break off awkwardly.

I don’t want to rub salt in his wounds. He doesn’t need reminding that he can’t afford to employ anyone now. I know exactly what that feels like. For about a month after my catering company failed, I’d wake up and had forgotten. Then the truth came crashing in on me again, and every time it was horrible.

“What’s this?” Ryan reaches curiously for the coffee-cup sleeve and reads the writing on it. “I owe you one. Redeemable in perpetuity.” He looks up. “What does that mean?”

“Oh.” For some weird reason, I find myself blushing. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Whose signature is that?” Ryan peers at the scribbly words.

“Yeah, what is this?” Jake takes the coffee-cup sleeve from Ryan and scans it, frowning. “Who owes you one?”

“He does,” I admit, a bit reluctantly. “The guy.”

“What guy?”

“The CEO guy.”

“Him?” Ryan jerks an incredulous thumb at Sebastian, still looking at us from the laptop screen. “How come? What happened?”

“I saved his laptop.”

“How?” Both of them are agog by now.

“It was nothing!” I say, trying to play it down. “There was this gush of water and I grabbed it. He said I’d saved his bacon. He tried to buy me a coffee, but I didn’t want it, so he wrote me this IOU. But it’s a joke,” I repeat for emphasis. “It’s not serious or anything.”

Ryan doesn’t seem to be listening.

“You saved his bacon,” he’s saying slowly. “So now he owes you a favor. Like maybe … giving a job to someone. A proper job. With proper money.”

I stare at Ryan, as it gradually dawns on me what he’s suggesting. He can’t mean— He couldn’t mean—

“Yes!” Jake joins in, his face animated. “Do it!”

“Do what?”

“Claim your IOU. Go and see the guy. Get Ryan a job. And make sure the salary’s decent.”

“I can’t do that!” I say, shocked. “I don’t even know him! He’s a stranger! I mean, I did bump into him tonight, actually,” I add, for the sake of accuracy. “But I don’t know him.…”

“It’s not about knowing him, it’s about your rights. He owes you one!” Jake jabs at the coffee-cup sleeve. “Says it here.”

“He doesn’t owe me that! All I did was save his laptop from getting wet. It was a tiny favor.”

“You don’t know that,” counters Jake at once. “You don’t know what was on that laptop. You could have saved him thousands of pounds.”

“Hundreds of thousands,” puts in Ryan. “You might have saved his whole company, for all you know.”

“You probably did.” Jake nods firmly. “You probably saved him millions and he tries to palm you off with a cappuccino. Cheapskate.”

“Look …” I exhale, trying to stay calm. “It wasn’t like that. And I can’t go waltzing into some guy’s office and say, ‘You owe me one, so give Ryan a job.’ ” I turn to Ryan. “Why don’t you apply properly? You have great experience, a great CV—”

“Oh, give me a break!” Ryan erupts. “I’ll never get this job! Not a chance. No one’ll read my CV and think, Yes! This is the guy we want to do our ethical trading shit.”

“They might!”

Ryan shakes his head, staring at the table. Then his eyes rise to meet mine and I can see the pain in them. A bleak, humiliated pain that I recognize.

“I’m going back to L.A.,” he says, and turns to Jake. “Sorry, mate, we’ll have to put our plans on hold.”

“No!” I say in dismay. “You can’t go!”

“I don’t have anything here.” Ryan speaks evenly, but there’s a bubbling, self-hating anger in his voice.

“You could! You might! Look, maybe I …” I check myself.

“You what?” Ryan tilts his head, suddenly alert.

“I …”

Oh God, oh God. I take a swig of wine, playing for time, trying to understand my own contradictory brain process. A moment ago it seemed unthinkable, the idea of claiming that IOU, actually going and claiming it. The very thought made me shudder. It was unpalatable. Grasping. Just … no way. Never.

But now my thoughts are swinging the other way. Am I being too precious? Maybe I did save Sebastian millions of pounds. Maybe he does owe me something proper. Something big.

Besides which, Ryan would be a great employee. He’s so bright and experienced. He’s been through such a lot. He deserves a chance—and what he says is true: He might not get through the application process. It’s brutal out there. And if I don’t do something, he’ll disappear back to L.A. before we’ve even had a chance to …

Anyway, Sebastian can always say no. This last thought bolsters my confidence. He can always say no.

“I’ll do it,” I say in a rush, and take another swig of wine before I can change my mind.

“You,” says Ryan, “are a star.” And he leans over to kiss me in a way that makes my head sing. “An absolute star, Fixie. To Fixie.” He lifts his wineglass and my cheeks glow.

“What’s going on?” says Leila, coming into the kitchen, clutching Jake’s cigarettes.

“Fixie’s got Ryan a job!” says Jake, and he grins at me, a proper affectionate grin.

“Fixie!” exclaims Leila. “You’re brilliant!”

“Isn’t she?” says Ryan, his arm around my shoulders.

I feel warm and radiant, basking in all this approval. It’s so unfamiliar. It’s so lovely. Ryan leans over to kiss me again—and this time his hand creeps up my thigh—and any remaining doubts I had are swept away. I’ll get Ryan a job, he’ll love me for it, Jake will be impressed … everyone will be happy!

—

After I’ve finished clearing up the kitchen, we watch TV for a while—but I can’t concentrate. I’m too aware of Ryan sitting next to me on the sofa, his thigh brushing against mine, his arm draped around my shoulders. Are we really back on? Properly?

“OK, we’re off,” says Jake as the show ends, and Leila immediately gets to her feet. “Coming, Ryan?”

“Not yet.” Ryan gives my arm an invisible squeeze. “I’ll hang out here a bit longer. That’s OK, isn’t it, Fixie?”

“Fine,” I say, my voice a little thick. “Yeah. Why not?”

I don’t know how I’m managing to sound so calm when my brain is shrieking, He’s staying! It’s happening!

Should I quickly take a shower?

No. Do not leave his side.

Oh God, it’s been over a year. Do I even remember what I’m doing?

“Fair enough.” Jake raises his eyebrows at the pair of us, and Leila comes over to kiss me goodbye, her eyes dancing with excitement as she glances at Ryan and back at me.

“Fixie, you look lovely,” she murmurs in my ear. “But let me quickly … your parting …” I feel her tugging at my hair. The next moment she’s got the lip gloss out again and she’s smearing it on my lips. She’s giving me a touch-up?

“Thanks, Leila.” I can’t help smiling, and she clasps my hand fervently as though to say, “Good luck.”

And then they’ve gone and it’s the two of us. At last. There’s a breathless, silent beat—then Ryan leans over to kiss me properly, deeply, his hand cradling my head. I can feel my whole body responding. Remembering. God, I’ve missed him.

I hadn’t realized how desperate I was. Two tiny tears are leaking out of the corners of my eyes and I quickly blink them away, because I don’t want Ryan to think I’m getting all serious or anything. I’m not. It’s just I thought this might never happen again. Ever.

I keep catching my breath, because he’s even hotter than he was before. He’s so pumped up. His biceps are about twice the size they were last year. I run a hand over his broad, rock-hard chest and feel a wash of lust so strong, I can hardly breathe. But somehow I murmur, “Shall we go upstairs?” and he nods and leads me out of the room.

“How big is your bed?” he asks teasingly as we go up the stairs, and I realize he’s never been to my bedroom before. Last year, he was staying in an empty flat in Canary Wharf that belonged to some movie friend of his. We spent all the time there, on the luxurious super-king.

Well, mine isn’t super-king, but at least I changed the linen yesterday.

“It’s big enough.” I smile as I pull him into the room and we tumble onto my bed. We’re kissing and rolling back and forth and Ryan is unbuttoning my shirt, and I’m trying to unbutton his at the same time. Our fingers keep getting tangled up and at last I start giggling.

“OK,” says Ryan, sitting up, giving me a mock-serious look. “Enough. One at a time.”

He takes off his shirt and I suck in breath at the sight of his tanned, rippled torso. He looks phenomenal. I can see him checking out his own reflection in the mirror opposite, and I say admiringly, “You’ve been working out.”

“Yeah.” He nods matter-of-factly. “I bench a hundred kilograms every day.”

“Right,” I say, hoping I sound suitably impressed. “Amazing!”

I’m a bit hazy about benching levels, but that sounds enormous. I’ve got a pair of weights, but they’re only five kilograms each. How does he even lift one hundred up in the air? Does he have help? I’m about to ask, “Do you have help?” when I realize that might not be the thing to say.

“Amazing!” I say again instead. “You look so hot.”

“You look hotter,” says Ryan, slowly pulling off my shirt. “God, I’ve missed you, Fixie. You should have come out to L.A. with me. Maybe everything would have been different.”

I blink at him in shock. I should have come out to L.A.? He never said anything about coming out to L.A. I would have been there like a shot.

“I don’t remember being invited,” I say, making sure I sound light and jokey.

“I should never have let you go.” He shakes his head. “That was my big mistake. You and me, we’re good.” His hands are running over me tenderly. “We’re just good, you know what I mean?”

I want to cry out, “Yes! I do know what you mean! Of course I do!”

But thankfully I’m not quite that uncool. Not quite.

“Well, we’re together now,” I say, my voice husky. “Let’s just enjoy … the moment.”

I pull him playfully backward onto the bed. And he’s leaning in to kiss me, when he stops.

“What’s that?” he says curiously, peering over my shoulder. I follow his gaze and freeze dead in horror. Shit. How can I have been so stupid?

The thing with bedrooms is, you get used to them. You get used to your faded lampshade and your creaky wardrobe door and the stack of books in the corner. You stop noticing them. And you also stop noticing your pile of school memorabilia on the window seat, topped with a framed photo of … guess who?

“Is that me?” Now Ryan is leaning over and grabbing the photo, in fascination.

“Oh, right!” I try to laugh casually. “Yes, maybe! I’ve still got all this old school stuff …”

I’m expecting him to comment on me having a framed photo of him, but he doesn’t; he silently peers at the image. It’s a picture I took once of him and Jake, leaning against the school fence. (I cropped Jake out.) Ryan’s smiling, his school tie askew and his sleeves rolled up. His hair is gleaming. He looks golden. Perfect.

“I had no definition in those days,” he says at last with a frown. “I was a skinny bastard.”

“You were gorgeous,” I contradict him, and run a hand over his back, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s reaching for an old DVD labeled Jake’s Park Picnic.

Oh God.

“Is that our Park Picnic?” he says incredulously, taking the DVD out of its box. “Is this a video of it?”

“Er … yes,” I admit. “I filmed the football match and stuff.”

The Park Picnic is a tradition at our school—all the leavers head there after their final classes and there’s a football game and they all drink beer and make a mess and residents write to the local paper and say it’s a disgrace. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but I snuck along with Hannah and filmed it. Well, I filmed Ryan, mostly. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.

“The football match.” His eyes light up. “I remember that. Let’s put it on.”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s looking at my TV. He means right now? Is he joking?

No. He doesn’t seem to be.

Well, I guess we can put sex on hold for a bit. It’s not like I’m desperate. (I am. I am desperate.)

I load the DVD and we wait for a few silent moments—then suddenly we’re looking at a sunny day, fourteen years ago. The park is crowded with kids lolling on the grass, swigging beer, and playing football. Some of the guys are bare-chested, like Ryan, who’s playing football, beer in hand, laughing and joking and looking like what he is: the golden boy of the school.

I remember filming him, creeping forward to the sidelines of the football game with my video camera, borrowed from Mum. And watching it later, over and over.

“Oh, Fixie,” says Ryan, with a massive sigh. “How did we end up here?”

I glance at him and my heart sinks slightly. His brow is knotted in a morose expression which I recognize from drunken evenings out with Jake. It’s the why-am-I-so-bloody-old look, which swiftly leads to the what-happened-to-my-life speech.

I mean, fair enough, I think those things too; everyone does. But we didn’t come up here to think about how crap life is. We came up to have sex.

“I’m glad we’re here,” I say encouragingly. “We’re together … you’re going to have a great job … it’s all going to work out.”

“You think?” His eyes don’t move from the screen, from his young, lithe, carefree self.

“Of course! You’re Ryan Chalker!” I say, trying to impress this on him. “You know, just the name Ryan Chalker used to give me goosebumps. I used to see you coming down the corridor and nearly faint. And not only me. Every girl in the school felt the same. Every person in the school. You must know everyone had a crush on you, even the teachers.”

Ryan’s brow has relaxed as I’ve been speaking, and his hand wanders toward my thigh again.

“So what did you think about me?” he asks idly. “I mean, what was it you liked?”

“Oh God, everything! Like, your hair and your laugh, and you were so fit …”

“Not as fit as I am now. I didn’t even work out back then.” He starts kissing me again, with more purpose, then murmurs into my ear, “What else did you think?”

“I thought you were like a rock star. I thought if you asked me out I would die,” I say honestly, and Ryan gives a soft laugh.

“What else?” he says, pulling me toward him.

This is turning him on, I suddenly realize. OK, quick, say some more.

“I used to think, Oh my God, it’s Ryan! He’s the sexiest guy in the school! And all I wanted to do was kiss you, but you never even noticed me because you were, like, Ryan the Sex God.”

“What else?” His breath is coming quicker now. He’s pulling off my underwear. I can tell he means business.

“I used to hitch up my school skirt whenever you were nearby,” I improvise hastily. “And I used to watch you play basketball and … er … you were so gorgeous, I wished you were bouncing me, not the ball.…”

No, wait. What am I saying? This is gibberish. But Ryan doesn’t seem to mind.

“What else?” he gasps as he enters me.

OK, it’s nearly impossible, trying to summon up sexy stuff to say while Ryan is driving rhythmically into me. My mind doesn’t want to work; it wants to surrender to sensation. But I must keep talking.

“That time we all went to the beach,” I manage, “you looked so hot, everyone fancied you.…”

“What else?”

“You were so sexy … everything about you was amazing.…” My mind goes blank. “Er … you had really cool sunglasses.…”

“What about my car?” he pants, his face contorted.

“Yes!” I exclaim, grateful for the idea. “Your car! Of course. I used to love your car. It was so hot and sleek and … and long. And hot,” I repeat for good measure. “And … and hard …” I’m racking my brains for another good word. “And throbbing,” I say in sudden inspiration. “It was such a … a throbbing car.”

“Oh my God!” Ryan explodes with a roar and collapses on me like a deadweight.

I don’t dare to move for what feels like half an hour.

“Bloody hell,” says Ryan at last, and heaves off me.

“Yes,” I say faintly, because I’m fairly sure I agree with “Bloody hell,” whatever he meant by it.

For a few moments we’re both quiet. Ryan is staring up at the ceiling and he suddenly sighs.

“You’re good for me, Fixie,” he says. “Have I ever told you that before?”

“Yes.” I can’t help smiling. “A couple of times.”

“There’s been too much bullshit in my life. I need you to get me through the craziness. You know?” He turns to face me directly. “That’s what I need. You.”

His blue eyes are unguarded. His face is earnest. He’s playing lovingly with a strand of my hair. And I feel myself melting all over again, because Ryan needs me. Not a girl in L.A. with a perfect figure, but me.

“The world’s a hard place,” I say, groping for something meaningful to say. “But we can get through it together.”

“Amen to that,” says Ryan.

He leans over to kiss me on the nose, then gets up, wraps a towel around himself, and heads out to our family bathroom, while I lie on the bed, still a bit stunned.

It’s happened! We’ve had sex. We’re together! (I think.) I’m good for him. And he’s definitely good for me.

OK. So now we need to stay together.

And, yes, I know I’m overthinking. I should enjoy the moment. I should lie here and relax and savor the fact that Ryan and I have got together. Nothing more, nothing less.

But I’m me. I’m Fixie. I can’t help it: Already my mind is roaming ahead with urgency.

I can’t bear to lose him like last time. He needs to stay in London. We need time together. We need to have a chance to mesh, to bond, to hang out, to let ourselves turn into a proper couple. But he won’t stay unless I get him this job. Everything depends on that one factor—everything.

And as I lie there, listening to Ryan operate our dodgy shower, I start to feel serious qualms. I can’t believe my entire future happiness rests on a scribbled promise on a coffee-cup sleeve.

What if it doesn’t work? What if the job’s been filled already?

Or what if Sebastian says the coffee sleeve was just a joke and he didn’t really mean it?

He repeated his offer earlier tonight, I remind myself. And he didn’t look as though he was joking. But what if he was? What if he has a very dry sense of humor?

Or what if he says the coffee sleeve wasn’t just a joke and he did really mean it and they are still hiring … but even so, the answer’s no?

Well. Then I’ll have to persuade him. That’s all.