I Owe You One: A Novel

by Sophie Kinsella

  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?”

&nbs
p; “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.