—
The next day I wake at 5:00 A.M. again. I really need to break this habit. My eyes instantly swivel to the coffee sleeve, propped up on my dressing table, and I feel a little flutter inside. The kind of light, excited flutter I haven’t felt since …
Oh God. Since Ryan, now I come to think of it. I feel about sixteen years old. This is kind of mortifying.
As I’m showering, I give myself a stern talking-to. This guy is taken. He’s simply being friendly in a platonic way. There’s absolutely no hint that … I mean, if there is any hint, it’s me reading too much into things … And anyway, he’s taken. He’s taken.
I step out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel, and look at my reflection, trying to find some inner resolve. What I should do now is quietly bow out. I should phone up the ward with a friendly excuse, wishing him well and saying goodbye. Certainly not prolonging this back-and-forth IOU game we seem to be in. It’s inappropriate. It’s gone on for long enough. What I need to do is nix it. Throw the coffee sleeve away. Get on with my life. That’s what I should do.
And as I look into my own alert, exhilarated eyes, I know that’s pretty much exactly what I’m not going to do.
After breakfast I get ready with care, putting on a dress I got in a cheap and cheerful Acton boutique the other day. It’s navy with a print of dachshunds all over it, and it makes me smile. I was going to keep it for parties, but suddenly that seems boring. Why not wear it now? Today? I do my makeup, text Greg to make sure he’s on the case, and pick up my bag to go.
Then I pick up the coffee sleeve. I run my eyes down the entries. His writing … mine … his … For a moment I hesitate. Then, almost defiantly, I pop it into my bag and head out.
Seb is awake as I arrive and greets me with a smile. He already looks a million times better than yesterday, with more color in his cheeks—although some of his bruises are turning lurid. He sees me eyeing them and laughs.
“Don’t worry. They’ll go.”
“How are you feeling?” I say as I sit down.
“Great!” he says. “I’m out of here tomorrow. And I get free crutches, so it’s not all bad. Did you bring the coffee sleeve?” he adds. “Tell me you did.”
“I did.” I can’t help smiling at his enthusiasm and produce it from my handbag. Seb takes a pen from the nightstand and writes carefully on the coffee sleeve, then hands it to me with a grin.
“Read it when you get home.”
I’m dying to read it now, but obediently I put the coffee sleeve away in my handbag. Then I reach into my canvas tote, produce a flat box, and hand it to him, feeling a little nervous.
“I brought you something, in case you get bored. It’s a chess set,” I add idiotically, as though he can’t read Chess Set. “I mean, it’s nothing special, it’s only cheap.…”
“This is great.” Seb’s face glows. “Thank you! Can you play?”
“No,” I admit. “No idea.”
“OK, I’ll teach you. We’d better clear these away,” he adds, gesturing at the newspapers littering his bed. “A nurse kindly procured them for me, but there’s only so many articles you can read about aliens.”
“Isn’t it extraordinary?” I agree, with a laugh, as I start folding the newspapers up. The whole media has exploded over some guy who “saw a UFO” in his garden last night and videoed it.
“D’you think when presidents get elected, one of the first things they do is write their speech for when aliens land?” muses Seb as he unpacks the chessboard.
“Yes!” I say, delighted by this idea. “Of course they do. And they practice it in the mirror. ‘My fellow humans, on this epic day, as I stand here, humble yet brave … ’ ”
“I bet Obama had a great one prepared,” says Seb. “I almost wish we’d been invaded by Martians, just so I could have heard it.” He looks at the piece in his hand. “OK. So, introduction to chess.”
Seb lays out all the chess pieces and starts explaining how one type goes forward and another goes diagonally and another hops around. And I do try to concentrate, but I’m fairly distracted by … well, by him. By his focused expression. His strong hands moving the pieces around. The passion he clearly feels for the game. “This is an interesting maneuver,” he keeps telling me, and I can’t admit that I’ve lost all track of everything he’s told me.
“So,” he says at last. “Shall we play?”
“Yes!” I say, because what’s the worst that can happen, I lose? “You go first.”
Seb puts the pieces in order again and moves a pawn. Promptly I copy what he did with one of mine. Then he moves a something-else, and I make a mirror-image move.
“So basically I can keep copying you,” I say.
“No, no!” Seb shakes his head. “You should experiment! Like, that knight?” He points to the horse. “That could go to all sorts of places.” I pick up the knight and he puts his hand over mine. “So it could go there … or there …”
I’m feeling a bit breathless as he moves my hand around the board, and I’m about to ask him, “What about the queen?” when there’s a jangle of curtain rings and a resounding, confident voice exclaims, “Seb!” and my heart stops.
It’s her. Briony.
I yank my hand out of Seb’s so quickly I send half the chess pieces flying, and Seb looks a little flustered and says, “Briony! I thought you weren’t back till— Hi!”
Briony takes a couple of steps toward the bed and I can see her eyes moving over us rapidly, zooming in on every detail.
“I was just—” I begin, as Seb says, “This is Fixie. The one who made the 999 call. Saved my bacon.”
“Oh, you’re that girl,” says Briony, and her demeanor instantly changes. “Thank you so much. We’re so grateful. God, Seb, your face,” she adds, with a moue of distaste. “Will it scar?”
“No,” says Seb easily, “shouldn’t do,” and I see something instantly relax in Briony’s expression.
Is that what she was worried about? Whether his face would scar?
“We need to get this better, though,” she says, patting his ankle. “What about Klosters?”
“I know!” Seb shakes his head ruefully. “The one year we’re organized and book ahead— Skiing,” he adds to me.
“Of course!” I nod heartily.
“Got you a card,” Briony says, handing him a postcard—and as he reads it he bursts into laughter. I can’t see what it says. Maybe it’s some private joke or whatever.
I’m feeling waves of disappointment and I’m hating myself for it. I mean, what was I hoping? That they wouldn’t get on? Of course they get on. Maybe they have the odd row, but they’re both tall and sporty and joke around and make one of those great couples you see in the street and say, “What a great couple.”
“So,” I say, scrabbling for my bag. “I ought to be going …”
“Chess!” exclaims Briony, her eyes lighting upon the board. “Excellent!”
“Fixie brought that too,” says Seb.
“So kind,” says Briony. “How did she know we’re both mad about chess?”
“Lucky guess,” I say with an awkward laugh. “Anyway, get well soon, Seb. Bye.”
I grasp his hand briefly in a weird kind of half shake, avoiding his gaze, then get to my feet.
“Thanks again, Fixie,” says Seb, and I mumble something indistinct in reply.
“Yes, thank you so much,” says Briony in her penetrating, confident voice. She’s not being Mean Newsreader anymore; she’s being Elegant Duchess. “We’re both incredibly grateful. Let me see you out,” she adds in a hostess-like manner, as though she owns the ward and the hospital and, in fact, everything.
We both walk to the door of the ward, whereupon Briony says again, “We’re so grateful,” and I murmur, “Honestly, it was nothing.”
As we reach the double doors, her eye falls on my dog
-print dress and she says with interest, “That’s Aura Fortuna, isn’t it?”
“What?” I say blankly.
“The iconic print,” she says, as though it’s obvious. “Except … shouldn’t the dogs have hats on?” She looks even more closely at the fabric. “Oh, wait. It’s a knockoff, isn’t it?”
“Er … dunno,” I say, confused. I’ve never heard of Aura Fortuna. Or any iconic print. I just saw the dress and I liked the dogs.
“Hmm,” says Briony in kind, pitying tones. “I kind of think if you’re not going to do it properly, you shouldn’t even try?”
Her words are like a stinging slap. I can’t even think of how to respond.
“Right,” I say at last. “Well … nice to meet you.”
“You too.” Briony clasps both my hands with a final, wide smile, which clearly reads: “Go away and stay away.” She closes with, “And as I say, thank you so much. You did a wonderful job and we’re both so grateful to you.”
My face is burning with mortification all the way down in the lift. But by the time I’m pushing my way out into the freezing air, I’m seeing the funny side of it.
Kind of.
I mean, you have to see the funny side of things, otherwise … what? You start brooding morosely on why he’s with someone so blinkered, and what does he see in her, and how can anyone be that rude, and …
Oh God. I am brooding morosely. Stop it, Fixie.
A thought suddenly occurs to me and I pull out the coffee sleeve. I know it’s only a silly game, I know it’s meaningless, but I might as well see what he wrote. I pause in the street, breathing out steam in the cold air and reading his handwritten words:
You saved my life, Fixie. To repay you that is impossible. Just know that from now on I owe you everything.
And underneath is his signature.
I read the words twice over, hearing his voice in my head, seeing his warm, honest smile in my mind’s eye. My eyes become a little hot. Then I shove the coffee sleeve back in my bag and stride on, down the pavement, shaking my head almost angrily. Enough. It’s all stupid. I need to forget about it.
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 b
ecause 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—
I Owe You One: A Novel Page 23