I Owe You One: A Novel

Twenty-three

I wake up with a splitting headache and only one thought: Seb. I must contact Seb. The entirety of last night is in my head, as clearly as though it happened five minutes ago. I still can’t believe how we veered off track. I have to talk to him, apologize; we have to make this right.

It was only a spat, I tell myself. All couples have spats. We were both tired and stressed and said stuff we didn’t mean. We can fix this.

I grab my phone and send a text to him:

Are we OK?

Then I flop back on my pillow and stare at the ceiling, trying to self-heal my headache. I’ve seen a book in Nicole’s room called Meditate Your Way to Health, but what are you supposed to do when your head hurts too much to meditate?

I try to focus on a beach, but the only beach I can visualize is dry and scorching and kind of dystopian-looking, with blinding white sand and harsh cliffs and a vulture trying to peck bits out of my eyes while it screeches in my ear. So in the end I get up, wrap my robe around myself, and stagger down the stairs to find some aspirin. I’ll follow the Drug Your Way to Health regime, I decide. Just for this morning. And I’m on the bottom step when a new text pings into my phone, making my heart lurch with nerves. It’s from Seb.

I don’t know, are we?

I gaze at it, my temples throbbing. I don’t know how to reply. If I say yes, do I sound too complacent? Obviously I’m not going to say no. What I really want to say is, I don’t know, are we? but that sounds like I’m copying him.

The main thing, I tell myself, is that he replied. Within two minutes. So he’s thinking about me too. And maybe the best thing is not to text again yet but to call him later, only I must have an aspirin first …

I push open the door of the kitchen and nearly die of shock. Ryan is sitting at the kitchen table, scooping cereal into his mouth.

“What are you doing here?” I clutch the doorframe.

“Morning.” He shoots me a dazzling smile, but I don’t return it.

“What are you doing here?” I try again. “What— How—” I feel like I might be going mad. Is Ryan part of my dystopian fantasy? Have I conjured him up to torture myself?

“Jake gave me a key, said I could stay over in his old room.” Ryan winks suggestively. “He told me you wouldn’t be here; otherwise, I would have come visiting.”

“You’re vile.” I glare at him. “I want you out.”

“Give me a chance!” says Ryan, gesturing at his breakfast. “I haven’t finished! Although these cornflakes are pretty gross,” he adds, wrinkling his nose.

“They’re Nicole’s,” I say. “They’re spelt flakes.”

“You moron,” I want to add. “Can’t you read the packet?” But that would be engaging with him, when what I want is not to engage with him, ever again.

“Spelt,” he says thoughtfully, finishing his last mouthful. “Huh. Figures.”

“Go,” I say sternly. “Now.”

“So, how have you been?” He leans back in his chair, running his eyes over me in a way that would have had me melting on the floor once upon a time. “I’ve been hoping you might call me.”

He’s been hoping I might call him? I open my mouth, about six furious responses on my lips, then stop myself. Do not engage, Fixie. It’s what he wants.

“Go,” I repeat. “Just go.”

“I’m going!” He lifts his hands, looking amused. “Make me a coffee first, though.”

Make him coffee? Is he for real?

“Go! Leave! Vamoose!”

“Oh, I took some chewing gum out of your bag,” he adds, pointing to where my tote bag is hanging on a chair. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Go!” I say, and now I really am feeling enraged. I look around wildly, see the broom propped up against the wall, and pick it up. “Go! Out!” I start prodding it at him, trying to make him stand up. “Out!”

“Fixie, you’re hilarious,” says Ryan, finally standing up. “I’ll see you soon, babe.”

Babe? That’s the final straw.

Lifting up the broom like a jousting pole, I charge fiercely at him with a kind of war cry, and he gives a jump of surprise, then half-walks, half-runs, as I prod him bodily down the hall.

“Go!” I’m shouting. “Leave and never come back! You are not allowed in this house!”

“Looking good, Fixie,” he says, as I shove him out of the door. “I’ll call you.”

“Please don’t! Ever!”

I slam the door shut. Then I lean against it, panting slightly and even starting to laugh as I remember his expression when I charged at him. He was actually a bit freaked out.

At last I head back into the kitchen, take my aspirin, and sit for a bit, letting all the events of yesterday swirl round my brain. Leila, weeping into her manicure set. Uncle Ned, spluttering at me in rage. Morag, I suddenly think. Oh God. I need to sort out Morag. And Jake … and is Mum OK?

I’m still sitting there, in a bit of a trance, when the door opens and Jake strides in. I gape at him, feeling I must be in a dream. First Ryan, then Jake? He’s dressed as smartly as ever, in a well-cut suit and tie, but his face is shocking. He looks drawn and pale and there’s an angry jut about his chin, as though he wants to smash the whole world.

“Where’s Ryan?” he says.

“Gone.” I’m not going to admit I threw Ryan out, because Jake looks like he wants to lay into someone and he might take it out on me. “So, if you wanted to see him—”

“I don’t,” he cuts me off. He paces over to the window and I watch in silence. His whole body is twitchy, I notice. He pushes a trembling hand through his hair, then turns to face me and just looks at me, and I know what he means. He means: “You know.”

“I saw Leila last night,” I say, to get it out in the open.

He nods briefly. “She told me.”

“Jake—”

“It’s all fucking bollocks. It’s all—” He breaks off, breathing hard. It makes me remember him kicking the can around the street when he was a teenager, railing at everything.

“Jake …” I close my eyes briefly, trying to marshal my thoughts and get rid of my remaining headache. “How much trouble are you in?”

For a while Jake doesn’t answer. He pours himself a glass of water and drains it, his head tilted back. I watch him, mesmerized by his Adam’s apple moving up and down, wondering what on earth he’s going to say next.

“You don’t need to know,” he says finally.

“Maybe I do! Jake, maybe this is the whole problem, that you’re not sharing this stuff!” My words tumble out in my eagerness to help. “We’re your family. We’re here for you. Whatever it takes, we’ll help you. Maybe go to see a debt expert, maybe get counseling—”

“I don’t need counseling,” he lashes back, and I bite my lip. “I need money.”

“You look knackered,” I say, with a wince. “You look like what you need most is sleep.”

“Sleep!” He gives a short angry laugh, and I see a vein throbbing at his temple again. Everything I say is making him cross, but I can’t stop.

“Why don’t you go and have a nap?” I venture. “And I’ll make some soup. And then we’ll sit down and make a plan.”

Just for a split second I think he might agree. There’s a flash of some deep-down emotion in his eyes and I feel as though I’ve got somewhere. But almost at once it’s gone. His guard is back up and he’s striding around the room again.

“I don’t need soup, or a plan, or any bullshit like that. I need cash.” He turns to me again, his face alive and urgent. “So here’s what you do. You go and see your rich boyfriend and you find me some money. Or a new business contact. Something.”

“What?” I’m so shocked, I actually laugh. “I can’t do that!”

“I need it.”

“Jake, I can’t.”

“I need it,” he repeats harshly. “If I can’t get some money soon, I’ll have to go to the guys who break your legs.”

I feel a stab of terror, and the ravens start to bat their wings as hard as they ever have, but I force myself not to cave in. Tough love. That’s what Seb advised. Block him out.

“There has to be another way.”

“I’ve tried every way!” he erupts. “You know what every businessperson needs, Fixie? A bit of luck. One little nugget of luck. Well, you’re going out with this guy Seb, and that’s my nugget of luck.”

“Seb and I had a row last night,” I contradict him. “I’m not even sure if we’re going out.”

“He owes you, though, doesn’t he?” Jake comes back instantly. “You saved his life or whatever? Leila told me the whole thing,” he adds, and I curse myself for blabbing about Seb last night, while Leila was finishing off my topcoat.

“He’s not rich,” I say. “He’s not. He manages money, that’s all. He’s not some flash guy; he’s not like all your millionaire friends.”

“He has access to money,” says Jake. “He knows people. And I’m desperate.” He comes over and brings his face close to mine. “Family first, Fixie. Do this for me. Or do you want to break up the family?”

“What do you mean, break up the family?” I say in horror.

“If you don’t do this for me, that’s it,” he says nastily. “The family’s broken. What, you’re going to watch your own brother sink? You think we can play happy family after that?”

He swings away and I breathe out, my head spinning, close to tears. I know what Seb said: tough love. But I’m not tough enough. I can’t block out Jake’s energy, his aggression.

I have a sudden memory of Mum’s voice: “Just don’t lose the shop, Fixie. Or let the family break up.” And I promised her. I pointed at the gateleg oak table in the dining room and said, “When you get back, we’ll be sitting around that very table to celebrate. The shop will be in great shape. And we’ll be a happy family.”

A wave of despair crashes over me. I’ve failed on every front. Morag’s threatening to leave. Profits are shaky. And now Jake’s going to break up the family. He’ll turn Nicole against me. Mum will come back to split-up, warring factions and she’ll be devastated.

I can’t be tough. Not that tough. I can’t.

And, anyway, what’s Jake actually asking for? He only wants me to request some help from Seb. It’s not such a huge deal.

“Fine,” I mutter at last.

“What, you’ll do it?” Jake’s face lights up.

In answer, I reach for my phone and compose a text to Seb:

Can I come to see you? Lunchtime?

I send it and almost at once get a response:

Of course!

“OK, it’s on,” I say, putting my phone down. “I’m seeing him at lunch.”

“Yes!” says Jake, giving an energetic fist pump. “Fixie, you’re a star.”

“I can’t promise anything,” I say, wanting to make this clear. “I can’t promise anything. All I can do is ask him for help.”

“Oh, he’ll help you,” says Jake, and all his confident swagger seems to have returned. “He’ll help you, Fixie.”

—

As I walk to work, I keep looking at Seb’s text on my phone and trying to analyze it. It’s only two words—Of course!—but I think I can tell a lot from them. He sounds keen. He put an exclamation mark, which he didn’t have to. He doesn’t sound angry. Or … does he?

I try to picture him saying, “Of course!” with a furious scowl, but it doesn’t work. I think he wants to see me. I hope he does. And of course we’ll have to talk about last night, and I’ll apologize for looking in his brother’s room and it might be a bit prickly … but we’ll be OK.

Won’t we?

At last I shove my phone away. I can’t speculate anymore; it’s doing my head in. I enter the shop and at once see Morag at the other end. She’s lecturing Stacey about something—I can’t hear what exactly, but Morag’s pointing to a display—and I feel a sudden wave of love for her. She’s planning to leave, but she’s still taking the time to do that? She still cares about Farrs; I know she does.

A bleep comes from my pocket and I yank out my phone again, thinking, Seb? But it’s a text from Mum:

Sorry I missed you, Fixie, feeling a lot better today. Hope all OK. Love, Mum xxx

I glance up at Morag, who is now gesturing at a saucepan, then read Mum’s words again: Hope all OK.

I hope so too. I really do.

When Morag’s finished, I wave to get her attention, and as she approaches, I say, “Morag, could we have a chat?”

I usher her into the back room, my head a mishmash of thoughts. I don’t know what I’m going to say or where I’m going to start. But I know that I have to reach out to Morag, urgently. I have to turn things around.

“Morag …” I begin, once we’re both sitting down with the door closed and cups of tea. “Everything’s been a bit of a mess since Mum went off to Spain.”

“Yes, love,” says Morag, in her sensible, unvarnished way. “It has.”

“But I’m going to change that. We’re going to cancel all the yoga, we’re going to make Cake Club a priority, we’re going to restock the shop.…”

“Good,” says Morag. “Because it needs it.”

“I want to look at our online business again. And we need a really big push before Christmas. We need to turn things around. We can turn things around.”

“Yes,” says Morag. “I think you can.”

You. Not we.

Has she mentally left already?

There’s a pause and I sip my tea, not quite knowing what I’m going to say next. Morag is so sensible, I think, as I stare at her practical hands with their transparent nail polish. She knows the customers. She knows buying. She knows pricing. She’s the one who should have been sitting round the table all this time, making decisions with me. Not Nicole. Not Jake. Not Uncle Ned.

“Morag, if we can persuade you to stay with us,” I hear myself saying, “I’d like you to be a director.”

The words are out before I’ve even stopped to consider them. But the minute I’ve uttered them, I know they’re right. Morag makes this place what it is. She should have ownership.

“A director?” Morag peers at me, startled.

“We haven’t valued you nearly enough,” I say. “And I’m sorry. Morag, please stay.”

“So this is a bribe,” she says at once.

“It’s not.” I shake my head vigorously. “At least, it’s not meant that way. It’s recognition. Of everything that you do.”

“A director,” says Morag slowly, as though getting used to the idea. Then she looks at me suspiciously. “Is your mum in agreement with this? Your mum’s big on family. I’m not family.”

Family first runs through my mind. Family bloody first. I’m not saying Dad was wrong, I’ll never say that, but maybe I’m starting to see “family” differently. It’s not just the people you share genes with; it’s the people you share loyalty and friendship and respect with. It’s the people you love.

“You’re part of the Farrs family,” I say. “And that’s what counts.”

“Fixie, you didn’t answer the question,” says Morag sharply, and I think, That’s why we need her: She doesn’t miss a trick. “Does your mum even know you’re offering me this?”

“I haven’t asked Mum, but I don’t need to.” I look at Morag resolutely. “I know she’ll agree.”

I’ve never felt so positive in my life. I know this is the right thing. Mum charged me with keeping this shop safe, and that’s what I’m doing.

“Well, I’ll think about it,” says Morag, finishing her tea. “I’d better get back to the shop floor.”

And she’s so calm, so unruffled, so impressive, that I cross my fingers all the way back to the cash desk and think, Please stay, please stay, please stay.

I think she will.

—

For some reason we get a group of Japanese tourists in that morning, looking for Union Jack memorabilia. Morag, Stacey, and I sell twelve mugs, sixteen cushion covers, and a calendar to them, while Greg attempts to “speak Japanese” in phrases he’s picked up off manga cartoons. Although none of the Japanese people seem to understand a word.

“What were you saying?” I demand, as soon as they’ve all left.

“Not sure,” he admits. “Kill, probably.”

“Kill?” I stare at him. “You were saying kill in Japanese?”

“It might not have been,” he says after a moment’s thought. “It might have been decapitate.”

“Decapitate?” I echo in horror. “You greeted a group of customers with the word decapitate?”

“They didn’t understand,” Stacey chimes in. “They just thought he was an idiot. How’s your boyfriend, Fixie?” she adds seamlessly, blinking at me.

“Oh,” I say, taken off-balance. “He’s … Um. Yes.”

Trust Stacey to catch me off guard. Avoiding her curious eyes—Greg looks pretty interested too—I glance at my watch.

“All good,” I add briskly. “In fact, I have to go. And, new rule,” I add over my shoulder as I head off to get my coat. “Anyone who says decapitate to a customer gets fired.”

“Well, that’s unfair,” I can hear Greg grumbling behind my back. “What if it comes up in normal conversation?”

“Normal conversation?” says Stacey mockingly. “What kind of sicko are you, Greg? I’ve never even said the word decapitate.”

“You just did!” points out Greg triumphantly. “Just did!” And I can’t help biting my lip, trying not to smile. They might be a bit dysfunctional … but I do love our staff.

Seb and I haven’t actually fixed up a time to meet, so as I leave the shop, I text him:

On way to you now. Is that OK?

Almost immediately he fires back a reply:

Fine.

I compose another text—Great, see you soon—and am hesitating over whether to add a kiss when another text pings into my phone. It’s from Seb again, and as I read it, I feel a bolt of shock.

Why do you want to meet?

I’m so disconcerted, I stop dead on the pavement. Why do I want to meet?

Why?

For a few moments I don’t know how to reply. What does that even mean? Isn’t it obvious why I want to meet? Pitching Jake’s request is the last of my priorities. I want to see Seb. I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to say how sorry I am that I crossed the boundary of his brother’s room. I want to tell him that I’ve tried to take his advice, I’ve tried to be tough with Jake, but sometimes I just don’t feel strong enough.

I want him. That’s all. I want him.

I walk forward, trying to get my head straight, trying to work out what to say, and as I do, I feel more and more upset. Why do you want to meet? That’s not a friendly question. That’s not a kissing-and-making-up question. Does he not want to kiss and make up?

As the thought hits me, I feel suddenly empty and scared and a bit stupid. Have I read this all wrong? Have I assumed …

Oh God. Does he see everything differently from me?

Are we over?

The thought sends unbearable pain ricocheting around me. Over. We can’t be over. I need him. I close my eyes, trying to breathe steadily, willing it not be true. It can’t be. It can’t be what he wants. But why else would he send such a formal, distancing text?

I read the words yet again—Why do you want to meet?—and they’re plain hurtful. Where’s the intimacy? Where’s the affection? What are we, business associates?

My head is throbbing and I think I might start crying if I let myself. But I’m not going to. I’m Ninja Fixie. I’m tough. If he wants to be businesslike, I can be businesslike.

I type a new text, my thumbs jabbing the keys so hard I keep misfiring, but I don’t care, I have to let out some of my hurt.

There’s a business thing I wanted to ask you about.

I send the text, then wait breathlessly. Two can send hurtful messages. Two can play at being distant and formal. A moment later my phone pings:

Fine.

I stare at the single word, feeling a fresh stabbing in my heart. Why is he like this? Why has he given up on us? We had a row last night. A row. Couples have rows. Is he really going to throw it all away because I made one stupid mistake?

As I scroll backward and forward on my phone, reading all the texts we’ve exchanged today, I just don’t get it. He sounded OK this morning. Not exactly ebullient, but not cold either. He sounded like he wanted to see me.

Now, however, he sounds cold and detached and not the Seb I know. Let alone the Seb I’m in love with. What’s happened? Why?

But I can’t answer any of these questions standing here, motionless. So at last I force myself onward, my feet feeling heavy. I was so looking forward to seeing him. But now I’m dreading it.

—

I arrive at the building and Seb greets me himself at the lift and I instantly know: It’s worse than I expected.

“So,” he says. “Hi.” He extends a hand, but he doesn’t kiss me. His face is taut. His eyes are dark and ominous and keep looking past me. I shake his hand, feeling a bit surreal.

“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“No problem.”

He ushers me into his office as though I’m a stranger, asking politely if I’d like a coffee. All the time, his body language is wretched: stiff and tense, keeping his distance, swiveling away from me at every chance. And I keep thinking, Is this is a joke? Are we really acting like this? But it doesn’t seem to be a joke.

As I’m waiting for him to return with my coffee, I look around his office. It’s so much more characterful than his flat. So much more homey, with all the books and photos and the colorful rug.

This is his home, I suddenly realize. So his flat is … what?

Limbo. The word comes to me, unbidden. His flat is limbo. Empty and unloved and kind of waiting. And suddenly I’m desperate to talk to him about this. But how can I when we’re as stiff as two cats preparing to fight?

He comes back in with two mugs, and I look up, hoping that maybe now things will relax—but if anything he looks less friendly than before.

“What can I do for you?” he says, sitting down, and I feel a surge of fresh hurt. Fine. If he wants to play it like that, then fine.

“I’m here for a favor,” I say shortly. “Not for me, for someone else. For—”

“Yes, I can guess,” he cuts me off.

He sounds so hostile, I flinch. He looks as though he’s bubbling with outrage. Hatred even. And, OK, I know he told me to be tough with Jake. I know I’m doing the opposite of what he advised, coming here for a bailout. But does he have to be so sanctimonious?

“I don’t expect you to understand,” I say.

“No. Frankly, I don’t.”

“Well, I guess I’m just not as strong as you thought,” I snap miserably. “Sorry.”

“Oh, you don’t have to apologize.” His eyes are so hard and unforgiving, I wince. “Your life. Do what you want.”

Do what I want? How can he be like this?

“Seb …” I stare at him, tears hot behind my eyes. “Look. I know you’re angry. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. But let me tell you why I’m here.”

“Really?” he shoots back, so viciously that I inhale in shock. “I have a better idea, Fixie. Let’s not talk about it. What do you want? Money?”

I stare at him, stung. Money? And I’m about to retort, “Don’t be silly, all I want is a bit of advice for Jake or maybe a contact, or even just a hug would do.…” when something in me snaps. If we don’t love each other, then why am I even hesitating?

“Well, you do owe me,” I retort, slapping the words down between us. And instantly Seb’s face goes blank and kind of scary-looking.

For a few moments neither of us speaks. The air feels hazy with tension. I feel like I’m in a bad dream and I need to wake up. I need to start again. Say different things. Make things go another way.

But I can’t. This is life.

“Yes. I owe you,” Seb says at last, his voice sounding like it belongs to someone else. “How much? Wait, I’ll find a checkbook.”

He gets up without looking at me, heads to a filing cabinet, and roots round in a low drawer. I watch him, motionless, faint with misery. I’ve achieved what I came here to do. So why do I feel so hollow?

Why am I here, anyway? What am I doing?

Trying to keep a grip on things, I remind myself of the facts. Jake. Debt. Family.

Except, sitting here, the facts seem to be taking a different path in my head. I’m thinking this all through in a way I haven’t before. Suppose Seb gives Jake a lump of cash. What then? What have I achieved? He’ll only spend it on a load of expensive lunches and tell us lots of bullshit about “deals” and we’ll be back to square one.

As Seb opens and shuts drawers, I’m light-headed with confusion. I feel like everything is out of my grasp. I can’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to come here. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have anything. Except the knowledge that I’ve destroyed any hopes of being with Seb.

I feel a dart of anguish, so painful that I drop my head into my hands. Random thoughts are running through my head, in such a bewildering stream that I can’t keep track. Family first. Tough love. Block them out. That’s what Seb said: Block them out. But how can I block out Jake? He said he’d break up the family. He looked like he meant it. And I love my family, I love them, despite everything.…

And then it comes to me in a kind of flash.

Love. It’s all about love.

Love isn’t blocking people out; it’s the opposite. If you love someone, you engage with them. You don’t block them out; you talk to them.

When did I last properly talk to Jake? When did Mum? He doesn’t let us in. He bats us away with his smart cars and drawling accent, with his lies and threats. But who is he underneath?

My head feels like it’s exploding. Everything is becoming clear. I don’t need to love Jake less; I need to love him more. We all do. Me. Mum. Leila. He needs the kind of tough, unconditional love that means we actually, properly, help him sort himself out.

Tough love. The toughest love. The lovingest love there is.

“OK.” I hear Seb’s voice and I lift my head to see him sitting back at his desk. “What do I owe you?”

A shaft of light from the window is catching his eyes, turning them a shiny green-brown again. I look at his face and find myself thinking, I love you. But what good is that now?

“Nothing.” I gather up my bag. “Actually, I don’t need any money, after all. Or any help. Thank you. Sorry to bother you.”

“That’s quite the volte-face,” says Seb expressionlessly.

“Yes, well. I’ve realized something. And, actually, it was you who helped me realize it.” My voice wavers slightly, and I clear my throat. “So … thanks.”

“Oh yes?” says Seb with stony indifference.

“Yes. You did.” His expression could not be less encouraging, but I force myself to press on. “When you talked about tough love. You helped me realize that if you really love someone, you don’t just shove cash at them. You help them become the person they’re meant to be. And that’s what unconditional love is.”

I gaze at him, desperate for some reaction, some warmth, something …

“Unconditional love,” Seb echoes at last, in an odd voice. His eyes look kind of scorched, as though I’ve dealt him some blow. “Well, I’m glad if you’ve worked that all out for yourself. But I have a busy day. So.” He pushes his chair back, as though to wrap up things.

I stare at him, feeling winded. That’s it? That’s his reaction?

“Why aren’t you more pleased?” My words tumble out before I can stop them, and to my horror, two tears spill over onto my cheeks. “I listened to you! I took your advice!”

“I am pleased,” he says. “I’m super-pleased. Good luck with your project. Goodbye,” he adds, standing up, and with trembling legs I rise too.

“Goodbye,” I echo him with miserable sarcasm. “Nice knowing you.”

I stalk out, my head in a daze, my eyes filling with fresh tears. As I do so, I think I catch sight of the IOU coffee sleeve resting on a shelf—and something seems to tug at my mind.

But I’m in too much turmoil to dwell on it or think about anything beyond the fact that Seb looked at me like I was a stranger. And everything’s worse than before. And I just don’t get it.