I Owe You One: A Novel

Sixteen

And I do. I manage to put him out of my mind. At least, most of the time. It’s easy enough to throw myself into the shop, what with Christmas heading toward us like a high-speed train and Stacey wanting to sell “Fifty Shades of Farrs” stockings, each containing a spatula, two clamps, and a rolling pin. (I don’t want to know.)

Mum’s been away for nearly three months, I realize one morning, with a jolt. It’s already November. She’s got to come home soon, surely? She loves the run-up to Christmas and all our traditions. We’d normally be making our Christmas cake around now, but I don’t want to do it without her, so I haven’t even bought the ingredients.

I’m at the shop one morning, watching Nicole put away her yoga stuff after an early-morning class, feeling pinpricks of frustration. She still doesn’t do it properly. The customers will arrive and she’ll be putting all the wrong things on the wrong display tables. We had to sell a toaster for a fiver the other day because she’d put it on the £5 table. It’s so annoying. And it’s even worse now we have all our Christmas displays up, because if you keep moving them, they start to look shabby. The gingerbread house on the front table already looks a bit disheveled. We’ll have to make another one.

I spray “Yuletide scent” around the place to give it some atmosphere (£4.99 and easily as good as a posh brand) and tidy up the display of festive napkins. Nicole is wandering over, clutching three yoga mats, and I’m about to say something to her about being more careful with the stock—but to my surprise she looks twitchy and worried. If she’s any animal right now, it’s Anxious Rabbit. I thought yoga was supposed to calm you down?

“Nicole, are you OK?” I say at last, and she jumps about a mile.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “Yeah.”

She’s not, though. She leans against the counter and chews a nail and I notice that it’s red and raw already. It’s not as if Nicole and I are the kind of sisters who share confidences—or anything, in fact—but she looks strained and Mum’s not here and I have to say something.

“Nicole, what’s up?” I persist. “Come on. Tell me.”

“Well, OK,” she says at last. “Drew wants me to go to Abu Dhabi.” She throws the words out in a tremulous voice, as though saying, “Drew’s having an affair.” Then she adds, “He wants me to visit him.”

“Right,” I say carefully. “I mean … that seems like a good idea, doesn’t it? In fact, I spoke to him about it recently.”

“He basically gave me an ultimatum!” Nicole seems astounded. “He was like, ‘Nicole, I’ve had enough. I want to see you.’ ”

“Well, isn’t that natural? I think he just misses you.”

“He’s so judgmental,” she continues as though she didn’t hear me. “He was like, ‘We’re married, Nicole.’ And ‘You promised to come out.’ I was like, ‘Stop criticizing me, Drew. You’re so negative.’ ”

I look at her beautiful brow, all creased up with distress. I’ve wondered about a million times in my life what it’s like to be Nicole—and now I’m getting a bit of an inkling. When you’ve been adored and admired and praised your whole life, maybe any tiny altercation feels like criticism.

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to criticize you,” I say. “I’m sure he just wants to see you. I think you should go!” I add encouragingly. “I bet it’s amazing out there. And warm. Go for a week. Or two weeks!”

“But what about my yoga?” says Nicole. “What about my business?”

Immediately my empathy turns to frustration. For God’s sake. Her business? Five women lying on mats? “What about your husband?” I want to retort. “What about your relationship? Don’t you value those things?”

I draw breath to say all this—then suddenly lose my nerve. That’s never been how we talk to each other. Nicole might bite my head off. And, anyway, is this the right place? Greg’s just opened the doors and three customers have come in.

“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” I say vaguely, then blink in surprise, because Jake is coming through the doors too, dressed in a sharp suit and eyeing the customers with his usual supercilious displeasure.

“Is Bob here?” he demands as he approaches, and I catch a heavy waft of aftershave.

“Bob? No. Don’t think so. He’ll be here tomorrow. Why?”

“I was trying to get through to him yesterday.” Jake frowns. “I thought I’d swing by on the off chance.”

“Why do you need to speak to Bob?” I say in surprise.

“Oh, something I noticed in the accounts.”

“What did you notice in the accounts?” I ask at once.

“Shit, Fixie!” he says impatiently. “Does it matter? Whatever!”

“Right,” I say warily, because I sense he’s not in the mood for conversation. He looks fairly shocking this morning. His face is pale, with purple shadows under his eyes. And he seems more lined, somehow.

“Heavy night last night?” I try teasing him. Usually Jake would grin and tell me how many bottles of champagne he got through and what they cost, but today he glowers at me.

“Just lay off, OK?”

“Oh, excuse me,” says a pleasant-looking woman, approaching us. “Do you have baskets? To put things in?” she adds. “Shopping baskets,” she clarifies, as though the phrase has just occurred to her. “You know what I mean?”

Jake eyes her silently for a moment. Then he goes over to the stack of red plastic baskets, picks one up, and proffers it to the woman with elaborate care.

“Here,” he says. “They were in that pile. That pile there, by the door where you walk in? Right where you can see them? That one?”

I stare at him in utter horror. You can’t speak to customers like that. Dad would kill him.

It’s only because of his affected drawl that he gets away with it. The woman stares at him uncertainly, clearly not sure whether he’s being sarcastic or not, then gives him the benefit of the doubt and says brightly, “Thank you!”

“Jake, you can’t—” I begin, as soon as she’s walked off. “That wasn’t— You could have offended her—”

Oh God, I’m stuttering again. Why can’t I sound as confident in actual speech as I do inside my head?

“Well, for fuck’s sake,” says Jake defensively. “What kind of moron can’t see the baskets?”

He heads off to the back room and I count to ten, telling myself that this time I have to confront him. He can’t jeopardize our relationship with customers, even if he has got a sore head.

I make my way to the back room and push open the door, expecting to see Jake on his phone, or striding around, or being Jake-ish—but to my astonishment he’s sitting on one of the foam chairs, his head back, his eyes closed. Is he asleep? Whether or not he is, he looks exhausted. Backing away, I close the door quietly and return to the shop floor. “Now, young lady,” comes a stern voice, and I glance up to see a gray-haired woman in a tweed coat approaching me. “Where’s all your plastic storage gone?”

“Oh, right,” I say. “We do stock storage containers, actually. That aisle.” I gesture helpfully, but the woman doesn’t seem impressed.

“I’ve checked! There’s nothing there! I want the jumbo size for my mince pies.” She eyes me with a gimlet gaze. “Where are they?”

“Oh, right,” I say again, playing for time.

I had a row with Jake over the jumbo containers. He said they were bulky and tragic-looking and cluttered the place up. So we returned some and the rest are in our storage facility in Willesden.

“I can get you some in,” I say. “I can have them by this afternoon—”

“That’s no good! I want them now!” the woman huffs angrily. “I’ll go to Robert Dyas. But it’s out of my way.”

She walks off before I can say anything more, and I feel a wave of frustration. I knew we shouldn’t cut the stock so drastically; I knew we should play to our strengths—

“Bye, then, Fixie,” says Nicole, who’s been drifting around, fiddling with the displays, noticing nothing.

“Wait,” I say. “Jake’s asleep in the back room. He looks really rough. Not just night-out rough. Worse than that.”

“He’s probably burned out,” says Nicole sagely. “He needs to learn to self-care. He should come to my yoga class.”

“Right,” I say doubtfully. “I can’t really see Jake doing yoga.”

“Exactly! And that’s the problem,” says Nicole, as though she’s solved everything. “See you.”

She wafts out before I can respond, and I stare after her. Maybe she’s right; maybe Jake is burned out. He’s always been about more, Jake, his whole life. More money, more status, more stuff for him, more stuff for Leila … But how’s he paying for it all? With his health?

Maybe I should talk to him. I wanted to have it out with him about the food storage department—but this is more important.

I leave it for an hour, telling all the staff to stay away from the back room. Then I cautiously push open the door and survey Jake. He opens his eyes a chink and peers back at me blearily.

“Hi,” I say. “You fell asleep. You must have been tired.”

Jake rubs his face, checks his watch, and says irritably, “Jesus.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts scrolling down his messages, wincing as he does so.

A few ravens begin to flap around my head, because Jake sometimes bites your head off if you ask him personal questions. But I can’t just let this go by. I have to say something.

“Jake,” I venture, “you look exhausted. Are you working too hard? Are you burned out?”

“Burned out!” Jake echoes with a short laugh, looking up from his phone for a nanosecond. He turns his eyes back to his screen and I watch as tension creeps up on his face. I’ve never thought of Jake as vulnerable before. But right now he looks anxious and beleaguered and weary, even though he’s just had a nap.

“Are you doing too many deals?” I try again. “Are you overwhelmed?”

“You know what’s overwhelming?” says Jake, and there’s a sudden edge to his voice which makes me wince. “Life. Just life.”

“Well, why don’t you slow down a bit? Why don’t you have a break?”

Jake puts down his phone and stares at me silently for a moment. His face is strained but his eyes are unreadable. Yet again, I realize I don’t know my brother very well.

“You’ve got a good heart,” he says. “Dad used to say that about you. D’you remember?”

“Dad?” I stare at him. “No.”

“When you were little. Nicole and I used to push you around in the wheelbarrow. And you fell out the whole time, but you always laughed. You never whinged.”

“The wheelbarrow!” A memory comes to me—an old wheelbarrow with red handles on our scrubby lawn—and I almost laugh in delight. “Yes!”

“You were cute.” A smile passes across Jake’s face and I think I can see genuine affection there, a nostalgia for the past. I smile timidly back, hoping we might talk like this for a while longer.

But already Jake is preoccupied by his phone again. “I’ve got to go,” he says, standing up.

“Wait,” I say eagerly. “Could we just have a word about storage containers?”

“Storage containers? Jesus, Fixie.”

All the softness disappears from his face. He’s back to impatient, scornful Jake again.

“What’s wrong with storage containers?” I retort before I can stop myself, but Jake just rolls his eyes.

“I do not have time for this,” he says, and strides out of the room.

I stare after him, prickling with stress, thinking, How did that go so wrong? when a text bleeps from my phone. I haul it out of my pocket, half-thinking it might be from Jake—but as I see the name, my stomach flips over. It’s from Seb.

It’s been ten days since his accident, and I thought I’d never hear from him again. I thought he was recuperating with Briony, playing chess and laughing uproariously at all their private jokes.

I wonder what he wants. I mean, it’s probably nothing.… It’s probably another mistake.…

Despising my fingers for trembling, I press on the text and read it.

Hello, guardian angel. I have a thank-you gift for you. Are you around this evening? Seb

—

For the rest of the day I try not to obsess. It’s no big deal. It’s nothing. We’ve made an arrangement to meet; he’ll give me a box of chocolates or whatever and we’ll say goodbye. End of.

But I can’t help it: My heart is jumpy. And I keep glancing in the mirror. And I keep thinking of witty things to say. All in all, I’m hugely relieved when at around four o’clock Hannah appears through the doors. Thank God: distraction.

“What are you doing here?” I ask in surprise, whereupon Hannah goes a bit pink around the ears and says, “We took the afternoon off. We’re doing what you said. Here they are.”

She turns to the doors and I follow her gaze to see Tim entering, followed by a girl with a baby in a sling. I recognize her as one of Nicole’s friends, although I can’t remember her name. She has long, greasy curly hair and is wearing a hoody spattered with orange stains.

“So, like, it’s really easy with one of these,” the girl says, gesturing at the sling. “You can, like, take the baby anywhere, feed anywhere.… Hi, Fixie. I need, like, a wipe-clean tablecloth.”

“Absolutely!” I say. “We’ve got a whole range.”

I point them out and the girl heads over in that direction. At once I turn to Hannah.

“So … ?” I say in an undertone. “And, quick, remind me of her name?”

“Iona,” says Hannah discreetly.

“Iona.” I nod. “Yes, of course.”

“Nicole put us in touch. We’ve spent the whole afternoon with her. Shadowing her. Seeing what having a baby is like.”

“Wow!” I say. “And how’s it going?”

“Really informative,” says Tim.

“Really informative,” agrees Hannah.

There’s a weird undertone to their voices, but I can’t quite tell what it is. I’m about to ask more, but just then Iona comes back holding a tablecloth, and puts it on the counter. Her baby is adorable, and we all take turns to coo over him and hold his little chubby hand.

“Like I say,” says Iona to Hannah, “parenting is a breeze, as long as you go with the flow, you know? Don’t stress. And you don’t need to buy a crib or any of that crap. I sleep with Blade and his two older brothers, all in the same bed. It’s the natural way.”

“What about your … partner?” says Tim, taken aback.

“Yeah, he has to put up with it,” says Iona with a laugh.

“I see,” says Hannah, equally taken aback. “So in terms of sleeping …”

“Sleeping?” Iona laughs again. “That doesn’t happen! My God, sleeping! We don’t remember what that is, do we, monster? Nighttime is playtime! I mean, he still feeds, like, ten times a night? But he’s only seven months, so.” She shrugs. “Early days.”

“Wow,” says Hannah, looking unnerved. “OK. The thing is, I was talking to my doctor once, and he was saying that sleep is really important for—”

“Your doctor,” Iona interrupts. “Like an NHS doctor? A mainstream doctor?”

“Well … yes,” says Hannah, sounding puzzled. “Of course.”

“I’m not even registered with a mainstream doctor.” Iona gives her a pitying look. “My biggest piece of advice: Don’t trust mainstream doctors. They have an agenda, you know? They want to get you on their system. The minute you get pregnant, if you do,” she adds to Hannah, “go to my nutritionist. I’ll give you the number. She specializes in baby health. She’s like, ‘What are people doing, putting drugs into babies?’ ”

I can’t help glancing at Hannah and Tim. They both seem frozen.

“But what if the baby’s ill?” says Tim at last. “What if the baby needs medication?”

“ ‘Ill,’ ” says Iona, making quote marks in the air. “You know how many babies are addicted to drugs because the doctors want them to be?”

I have to bite my lip. Tim looks like he wants to erupt, and I’ve never seen Hannah’s eyes so goggly.

“Right!” says Tim. “Well. It was great to spend the afternoon with you, Iona. Thank you so much for sparing the time.”

“No worries,” says Iona easily. She fist-bumps him, then kisses Hannah. “And remember—there are no rules.”

“Except the rules of science,” says Tim under his breath, and I stifle a giggle.

We all watch in silence as Iona saunters out, whereupon Tim and Hannah explode simultaneously.

“Oh my God.”

“Jesus, what a nutter.”

“We are never doing it like that. Never. Never.”

“I couldn’t live like that.”

“Did you see that kitchen? The mess!”

They’re speaking with a common passion, a fervor, a united spirit. It’s actually really touching.

“Hannah, your to-do lists are a work of art,” says Tim suddenly. He takes her by the shoulders and gazes at her as though he’s fallen in love with her all over again. “They’re stupendous. I’ll do everything on them. Just please don’t make me sleep in a bed with six children and ignore medical research.”

“Never!” says Hannah, laughing. “Although I could lighten up a little. I guess I am a bit of a … What did Iona call me? Controllagirl. All I did was wash up a couple of mugs for her,” she adds to me. “There was literally not one clean mug in her kitchen.”

“I love you, Controllagirl,” says Tim, kissing her, and I see Hannah’s face turn a happy, rosy pink.

“Right back at you, Controllaguy.”

“OK now, garlic press,” says Tim, abruptly changing gear. “We mustn’t forget. I’ll go and get one.”

He strides off in his determined way and I beam at Hannah.

“So! Everything’s OK again? Tim’s not freaked out anymore?”

“I’ll tell you what really freaked him out,” she responds. “The idea that someone could name their children Journey, Wisdom, and Blade.”

She catches my eye and starts giggling, and that sets me off, and soon the pair of us are in total fits. And I wasn’t planning to tell her, but as we’re both calming down I find myself saying, “So guess what? I’m seeing that guy later. The one who gave Ryan the job. Who had the accident. He wants to give me a present to say thank you.”

“Oh, him,” says Hannah, and I feel her eyes zoom in on me. “That’s nice.”

“Yes,” I say, trying to sound casual. “That’s what I thought. He didn’t need to.”

“But it’s not—” She hesitates. “He’s attached, right?”

“Oh, totally!” I say quickly. “Totally.”

I can tell Hannah’s slightly intrigued but isn’t going to push it. “Where are you meeting him?” she asks, and I give a wry laugh, because this is funny.

“Well. You’ll never guess.”