“There’s a red carpet when you come in,” says Hannah, her mouth twitching. “A red carpet.”
“I know,” I say. “Jake says it’s for ‘VIP photo opportunities.’ ” I meet her eye and bite my lip and suddenly I can feel giggles rising up. It all seems so ridiculous. Although maybe Mum’s right—maybe Jake understands promotion in a way we don’t.
“He’s given the shop a total makeover,” I add. “Him and Nicole. They insisted. They want it all to look more ‘cool.’ You know Nicole’s started yoga classes?”
“I got her email.” Hannah nods. “To be honest, I thought, Why would you do yoga at Farrs?”
“Exactly! But she’s got about six friends who do it, and she keeps moving the front displays and it’s been so disruptive. She and Jake have cut the food storage department by half, and they’ve lost the jam-making department completely, and Jake’s brought in these really expensive garden lanterns that his friend imports. I mean, garden lanterns when we don’t have a garden department!” My voice rises with indignation. “Why are we stocking them but not the full range of storage containers?”
“I know,” says Hannah sympathetically, and I belatedly remember that I ranted to her about this a few days ago. “But there’s nothing you can do about that now, is there? Try to forget about it, Fix. Enjoy the evening.” She tops up my glass. “Is Ryan coming?”
“As soon as he finishes at work,” I say with a nod.
“And how’s it going?” She raises her eyebrows meaningfully.
“His work, you mean? Or us?”
“Both,” she says. “Everything.”
“Well, we’re great,” I say firmly. “We’re like an old married couple.”
And it’s true: I’ve felt really close to Ryan these last weeks. It’s all so natural and lovely. I’ve come to expect his presence in the house, once, twice, or even three times a week. And our relationship is …
Well.
I mean, it’s a bit different from the way I imagined. We don’t have quite as much sex as I thought we would. There was that one time, when we first got together, and since then it’s been … I guess the word would be sporadic. Or maybe intermittent. Five times in total is what it boils down to. In a month.
But what that says to me is that Ryan needs to be nurtured. He needs to heal. He’s been through a very tough, humiliating time, so his libido has inevitably gone down. It’s totally normal. (I googled it.) And the last thing I must do is make him sensitive or self-conscious about it. So I haven’t even mentioned it. I’ve just looked after him in the most unconditional, supportive way I know. Good home-cooked food, lots of hugs, lots of listening.
“And his job?” inquires Hannah.
“Patchy,” I admit. “Not straightforward. He’s having power struggles in the office.”
“Power struggles?” Hannah opens her eyes wide. “Already?”
“Don’t repeat this,” I say quietly, “but the boss—that guy I met—is jealous of Ryan. He said he wanted someone with experience of the world—but when it came to it, he didn’t. He wanted the same old thing: a young, wide-eyed intern he could push around and not be threatened by. It’s a shame.”
I’ve been really disappointed in Seb. It just shows: You can be completely wrong about someone. Apparently he’s insisted that Ryan stop attending some of the meetings he was going to—which makes no sense, because how’s Ryan supposed to learn the business? Ryan’s theory is that Seb now bitterly regrets hiring, as Ryan puts it, “a man, not a boy.” Especially as the rest of the company love Ryan and keep asking his opinion.
“Hmm.” Hannah thinks about this. “Can’t Ryan keep his head down?”
“He does. As much as he can. But, you know, he’s Ryan.” I spread my hands. “If he thinks someone’s going to make a bad decision, he’ll tell them so.”
As I speak, I feel a little glow of pride. It’s exactly because Ryan won’t keep his head down that he’s such a remarkable guy. He says he can see at least ten ways in which ESIM is going wrong. He says he’s not going to rest until he makes his case, and already people are cornering him, asking his advice. He reckons Seb is a nice guy but doesn’t know how to manage people, and the company has grown too fast, too soon. “It’s all over the shop,” he keeps saying, shaking his head. “All over the shop. They’ve got no idea.”
He talks quite a bit about someone called Erica, who is apparently the oldest and most experienced person on the team. She’s a massive fan of Ryan’s. She reckons he’s much more a natural leader than Seb and could run things in a heartbeat. But Seb essentially owns the company, so there’s not much chance of things changing.
At first I found it dizzying, the way Ryan was already talking about leading. But I’ve gradually got used to him, to his huge ambition. He sees the world as a place to conquer. When he tells me how he made it through Hollywood, it’s like listening to an SAS commander talking about a campaign. And, yes, he crashed and burned—but isn’t that the same with any success story? Great leaders fail, learn, pick themselves up, start over, and reach even greater heights.
“Anyway, he’ll work it out,” I conclude. “He gets on with a lot of the team, at least. They go out together and play pool, like, three times a week. It’s nice.”
“Well, here’s to it all working out,” says Hannah, and we’re clinking glasses when in come Morag, Greg, and Stacey.
My jaw drops at the sight of them. They’re all in party clothes, but none are what I would call “glamorous and sophisticated.” Morag is in the most lurid, shiny purple dress I’ve ever seen, with shoulder pads and a peplum. As she moves, it turns blue under the lights. It’s hideous. Where did she even get it from, the Flammable Dress Shop?
Stacey is in a dress which essentially consists of a set of black lace underwear with black chiffon draped over the top. And Greg is in what he probably thinks is a “sharp” suit, with gelled hair. He’s wearing white socks and pointy shoes and looks like he’s going to a 1950s party.
“Hannah!” Morag greets her like an old friend, which in fact she is. Everyone at Farrs knows Hannah. “Lovely to see you! Although, should you be drinking?” Her eyes fall on Hannah’s glass reprovingly.
“Tim doesn’t want a baby anymore,” announces Stacey. “He’s changed his mind. Just like that.”
“Stacey!” I gasp. “That’s private!”
“Couldn’t help overhearing,” she says unrepentantly, clearly meaning: “Couldn’t help listening in on your conversation.” “Bummer,” she adds to Hannah.
“Has he found out he’s already got a kid, then?” says Greg sympathetically. “And he doesn’t want another one because, you know, child support?”
“No!” exclaims Hannah as though stung. “Of course not.”
“Happens,” says Greg with a shrug. “Happened to a mate of mine on The Jeremy Kyle Show. He got a free DNA test out of it, though. So, you know, not all bad. Funny story,” he adds, reminiscing. “They messed up on his expenses. He ended up ten quid up. Result!”
“I’m sure that’s not what’s up with Tim,” I say hurriedly, seeing Hannah’s frozen expression. “And as I say, it’s a private matter, so could we all—”
“I say divorce him,” says Stacey to Hannah, ignoring me. “And sleep with all his friends. Then, when he’s an emotional wreck, find another friend—maybe his very best friend, the one he thought would never betray him—and sleep with her.”
“Her?” Hannah’s eyes widen.
“Her.” Stacey nods without a flicker. “And you better be good.”
“Stacey, love, I don’t think that’s the way at all,” puts in Morag. “Why not bake Tim a nice cake?” she adds to Hannah. “A Victoria sponge, or a nice carrot cake … He may have a gluten allergy!” Her eyes suddenly light up. “That may explain everything.”
“Morag, I don’t think a gluten allergy makes you decide against fa
therhood,” I can’t help saying. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“It may be irritating his insides,” she replies, unmoved. “These allergies can wreak havoc, love.”
“I say hypnotize him,” says Greg, and we all turn to stare at him.
“Hypnotize him?” echoes Hannah.
“I’ve been doing a course.” Greg gives her a knowing look. “Specialist military techniques. Give me twenty-four hours; I can strip him down until he has no personality left and you can start again.”
“Right,” says Hannah after a pause. “Well, maybe.”
“Don’t resist it,” says Greg, his eyes bulging at her. “You’ve got to let me help you.” He gestures meaningfully with his hands. “Let me help you.”
“Is the party starting yet?” says Hannah desperately.
“Exactly!” I say. “We should get out there and greet people. Come on.”
I usher everyone out and survey the shop floor. It looks totally alien. Music is thudding through speakers, and two waitresses are taking round trays of champagne. Some people have arrived, but I don’t recognize any of them. They look like Jake’s estate-agent friends.
Near the entrance is a five-foot-long “red carpet,” with a VIP rope and a backdrop screen covered in printed stars. Nicole is on the red carpet, looking totally at home, posing for a photographer with a blond girl who must be Kitten Smith. They’re both in long dresses, and Nicole is throwing her hair around and doing lots of fake laughing with her arm around the blond girl’s waist.
“Look,” I say to Stacey, feeling a quickening of excitement in spite of myself. “It’s Kitten Smith.”
“Oh yeah,” says Stacey, shooting her an unimpressed look. “How much did Jake pay her to come?”
“Pay her?” I stare at Stacey.
“Well, she wouldn’t have done it for free, would she?” Stacey rolls her eyes.
“Right. Of course not!” I say hastily, trying not to sound as naïve as I feel. It never occurred to me that Jake was shelling out on this YouTuber. I thought he’d got her interested in Farrs somehow.
How much did he pay?
As I’m watching, two girls in glitzy-looking dresses come through the door and Jake kisses them both with loud exclamations. I have no idea who they are. I have no idea who anyone is. I know I need to go and mingle, but they all look terrifying. I decide I’ll finish my drink, get another one, and then go and mingle.
Jake looks in his element, I can’t help noticing. He’s handing out drinks and cracking jokes, all loud and confident. I keep hearing the phrase “Notting Hill” in conversation, which makes me prickle suspiciously, but I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I drain my glass, fill it up again, and am about to approach the glitziest, most-frightening-looking girl, when I see a welcome sight coming in through the door. It’s Vanessa! She’s dressed up smartly in a navy suit, but she’s as smiley and familiar as ever.
Finally! An actual customer! I hurry over and find myself kissing her on both cheeks, which is not what I’d normally do but I’m picking up habits from Jake.
“Vanessa! Welcome!” I grab a glass of champagne from a waitress and give it to her.
“Well, isn’t this nice?” says Vanessa pleasantly, looking around. “Very smart. What’s it in aid of? I couldn’t quite work it out, from the invitation.”
“Oh … a revamp,” I say vaguely. “Relaunch.”
“That’s what I told the others.” Vanessa nods. “They’re on their way. We met in the pub first, actually, but I’m pressed for time, so I thought I’d hurry along.”
“The others?” I say, not following.
“The Cake Club!” says Vanessa with a friendly laugh. “They didn’t seem to know anything about it. I had to send out a round-robin email. You really need to look at your mailing list, Fixie.”
“You did what?” I stare at her.
“But they’ll be along any moment,” she says cheerfully. “Ah, look, there’s Sheila now.”
Sheila? My head whips round. Oh my God. Sheila.
I’m sure Sheila wasn’t on Jake’s curated guest list, what with her being a “repulsive wreck.” But after what looks like an altercation with the bouncer, she firmly pushes her way in. She takes off her shabby mac to reveal a crumpled, tent-like dress and her usual furry boots. I can see her peering around, searching for a familiar face—then she spots Nicole on the red carpet.
“Nicole!” she exclaims, and shuffles onto the red carpet to join Nicole and Kitten Smith. “Don’t you look nice? Who’s this? A new salesgirl? Are we doing photos?”
I glance over at Jake and feel a convulsion of laughter. His face. His face! He breaks away from the group of smart people he’s with and heads swiftly toward the red carpet.
“Delighted to see you,” he says smoothly to Sheila. “Absolutely delighted. But may I suggest—” He breaks off as the door opens and six more members of the Cake Club pile in, sweeping past the bouncer, all wearing anoraks and sensible shoes.
“Ooh, look!” Brenda exclaims, peering around. “Doesn’t it all look strange?”
“Morag!” calls another woman whose name I don’t know. “I brought oatmeal cookies. Where shall I put them?” She brandishes a plastic box, and I see Jake flinch in horror.
“Girls!” calls Sheila, waving vigorously from the red carpet. “Here! We’re doing photos. Young man,” she says to the local photographer. “Would you do a group shot? Come on, Cake Club! Nicole, you don’t mind moving, do you? Morag, join us!”
As Sheila literally elbows Nicole off the red carpet, my stomach is hurting from trying not to laugh. Within thirty seconds, the red carpet is full of middle-aged women in sensible coats, all beaming and waving at the camera. The smart guests are peering at them in surprise. Jake looks like he wants to throw up. I can hear Nicole ranting to Kitten Smith about how she’s the face of Farrs and this is all so unprofessional.
At that moment, I hear a voice in my ear. “Love, I wondered if you had another mug? Same as before, the brown one.”
I whip round and bite my lip. It’s my friend the old shuffly man with the shopping trolley. Of course it is.
“Hello!” I say. “We’re not really open, but I’m sure I can get you a mug.”
“I saw the lights on,” he says conversationally, looking around. “Serving drinks, are you?”
“Here you are.” I pour him out a glass of champagne. “Enjoy.”
I hurry off and find a brown earthenware mug in the stock room. I wrap it in tissue, then return, take the old man’s money, and pack his new mug safely in his shopping trolley. The tills aren’t open, but I’ll sort it all out tomorrow.
“Would you like some more champagne?” I ask. “And a canapé? Or a cookie?”
“Well.” His rheumy eyes brighten as he looks at his nearly empty glass. “A drop more of this would be grand.…”
“Excuse me.” Jake’s stentorian voice interrupts us. “Do you have an invitation?” He doesn’t even wait for the old man to answer. “No. You don’t. So could you kindly leave?”
To my horror, he takes the old man by the elbow and starts to escort him, quite roughly, to the door.
“Jake!” I exclaim. “Jake, stop it!”
“This is a private event,” Jake says to the old man, ignoring me. “The shop will be open during normal hours tomorrow. Thank you so much.”
He turns back from dispatching the old man, and I feel a flare of rage.
“Fixie, can I see you for a minute?” says Jake in ominous tones, and I glare back at him.
“Yes,” I snap, and follow him to the back room. He slams the door and we stare at each other for a silent ten seconds. I’m forming furious, outraged phrases. I can see them now, flashing in their thought bubble, red and angry.
How dare you? That was a customer and he deserved
respect! Who do you think you are? What would Dad say?
I draw breath, telling myself that this time I’ll do it; this time I’ll really have my say. But as I look up at Jake’s intimidating face, it happens again. My nerve collapses. The ravens have started flapping around me.
“Are you deliberately trying to sabotage our relaunch, Fixie?” he says, in his sarcastic, biting way. “I assume it was you who invited the anorak brigade, not to mention your homeless friend?”
“He’s not homeless!” I retort, as strongly as I can manage. “And even if he were, he’s a customer! And I think …” I swallow. “I just think …”
My words have ground to a halt. I hate myself right now. I can’t shout. I can’t assert myself. I can’t say the things I want to say.
“What?” demands Jake.
“I … I don’t think you should have treated him like that,” I stutter at last.
“Oh, you don’t?” Jake snaps back. “Well, I don’t think you should have invited all and bloody sundry to what was supposed to be a professional event.”
“I didn’t invite anyone!” I say. “It was Vanessa!” But Jake isn’t listening. He sweeps back out to the party and after a few seconds I follow, my cheeks burning. I’m thinking I might go and drown my sorrows with a cookie, when I see Leila waving at me.
“Leila!” I exclaim in relief, because if there’s anyone who will cheer your soul it’s Leila. She’s wearing a silver dress with a tulle skirt and looks like some sort of sprite.
“Fixie!” she says, and hugs me. “Thank goodness! I told Ryan you must be here somewhere.…”
“Ryan?” My heart lifts. “Is he here?”
“He’s here.” Leila bites her lip and lowers her voice. “He’s drunk.”
“Drunk?” I stare at her.
“It’s not good.” Leila looks anxious. “Fixie, you need to know something; he—” She breaks off as Ryan himself appears, holding two glasses of champagne. His eyes are bloodshot and he surveys us all with a morose gaze.
“Hi!” I say, kissing him. “Is everything … Are you …” My words trail away and I glance uncertainly at Leila, who winces. “What’s up?”
I Owe You One: A Novel Page 17