“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.”
Seventeen
I have no idea why Seb has chosen Somerset House skating rink for our meeting. His ankle is injured. He can’t skate, surely. But that’s what he said, so that’s where I am. And I’ve got here early because … Well. Just to watch and enjoy.
It’s got to be the most Christmassy bit of London, this ice rink, surrounded by the grand, elegant façade of Somerset House. A spectacular Christmas tree is towering over everything and music is pounding through the air and people are laughing and calling to each other.
I’m sipping a hot chocolate, shivering slightly in the wintry breeze, mesmerized by the ice. I’m remembering what it felt like to sweep out on the rink to start a competition routine, all alone, chin up, heart pounding, and the smell of hairspray in my nostrils. (Mum always overdid the hairspray.) I mean, it’s madness when you think about it, trying to dance and jump on two perilous knife-edges. But when it goes right, when you land a big jump safely … it’s the most exhilarating feeling in the world.
A group of people are making their way onto the ice, laughing and pushing each other and taking selfies, and after a moment I realize that one of them is Briony. Which means Seb must be here. I swivel my head, looking all around, and suddenly spot him, wrapped up in a dark coat and checked scarf, sitting on a chair and watching the skaters with a pair of crutches at his side. I walk swiftly toward him and wave to attract his attention.
“Hi!” I say, and his face creases into a delighted smile.
“Hi!” he says, and starts struggling to his feet.
“Don’t be silly,” I say, gesturing at him to stay and crouching down beside him. “How are you? Your face looks a lot better,” I add, eyeing his cheeks and temple. The swelling has gone right down and he practically looks normal.
“Fun, this,” he says, nodding at the rink. “You ever do it?”
“I have done,” I say after a pause.
“Well, thanks for coming. I thought it would be a nice Christmassy place to meet.”
“Definitely!” I nod.
“You’re doing great!” Seb calls out to his friends, and they all wave back. For a few moments I watch Briony on the rink. She’s wearing a short white twirly skirt and a fur hat and she looks amazing, but her skating is abysmal. It’s actually worse than average, I decide, after watching her critically for a few minutes. She needs to slow down and stop flailing her arms, for a start.
Do her boots not fit? Or is she simply showing off too much? As soon as I’ve had this thought, I realize I’ve got it. She isn’t even thinking about what she’s doing; she’s posing in front of her friends, most of whom are guys, I notice. They’re all well dressed and calling out names like “Archie!” to each other. Jake would love them.
“So, I wanted somewhere nice to give you this,” says Seb, interrupting my thoughts. He hesitates, then reaches into a Tesco canvas bag and pulls out a parcel. It’s medium-sized, quite light, quite nondescript. No branding or gift bag or anything like that—just plain brown paper. I have no idea what it is.
“Open it!” says Seb. “Just my little thank-you,” he adds casually.
“Well, you didn’t need to,” I say, smiling with mock disapproval as I tear open the wrapping paper. “There was really no need. But I’m very—”
My words dry up on my lips as the paper comes off. I’m staring at the object in my hands, my head spinning in disbelief.
“My hairbrush?” I manage at last.
“Safe and sound,” says Seb, looking satisfied. “Restored to its rightful owner.”
I turn it over in my hands, my throat tight. I’m flashing back to the day Mum and Dad gave it to me, on my sixteenth birthday. The way it looked in its presentation box, all smart and new.
“I thought I’d never see this again,” I say dazedly. “I thought I’d— Wait.” A new thought grips me. “How? How did you get this?”
“Good vigilantes never tell,” says Seb in mysterious tones. “This will go with me to the grave.”
“No. No.” I shake my head vigorously. “You can’t turn up with this, with this”—I brandish the hairbrush at him—“and not tell.”
“OK.” Seb capitulates at once. “Actually, I’m longing to tell. Our story begins when you let slip the name of your hairbrush’s abductor,” he says in dramatic tones. “Sarah Bates-Wilson. At once I knew I could track this villain down. She still lives in a ground-floor flat,” he adds more conversationally. “Which was handy.”
“Did you break-and-enter?” I stare at him, aghast. “Oh my God.” My gaze drops to his foot. “But you couldn’t have!”
“I knew my injury would hamper me,” Seb
continues in his dramatic voice. “I therefore enlisted an accomplice: my faithful sidekick Andy. We hatched a plot in which I would distract Sarah B-W at the door, asking her questions about her political views, while he crept round the back. Her bedroom window was open; the hairbrush was on the chest of drawers. It was a matter of mere seconds for him to reach in and pinch it,” he ends with a flourish.
I’m silent for a moment, digesting this.
“What if the window hadn’t been open?”
“We would have tried again another day. We were lucky,” adds Seb, in his normal voice. “We’d only gone along to case the joint. Getting the hairbrush first go was a bonus.”
“I don’t know …” I stare at the hairbrush, feeling suddenly conflicted. “I mean, this is amazing, but … you broke the law.”
“She broke the law first,” points out Seb. “She stole your hairbrush.”
“Yes, but … you broke the law!”
I’m clutching stolen goods in my hand, it occurs to me. Oh my God. If Dad taught us anything besides Family first, it was Stay on the right side of the law.
“I didn’t break the natural law,” says Seb with assurance. “Think about it, Fixie. All those companies legally siphoning off money offshore to avoid paying tax. All those executives legally awarding themselves mammoth pensions while their workers get nothing. All abhorrent. I go to jail for restoring your hairbrush to you—and they don’t?”
He sounds so certain, so honest, so good, that I feel a bit of confidence seeping back into me.
“The law doesn’t always know what it’s doing,” he adds for good measure. “Humans have a far greater instinct for what’s right in life than lawyers do.”
“The law is an ass,” I volunteer. I heard that once, and I’m not sure where it comes from but it seems appropriate.
“The law is a wuss, if you ask me,” counters Seb, “but that’s another story. Or maybe it’s politicians who are wusses.” He grins at me disarmingly, his green-brown eyes shining. “Don’t let me get onto my hobbyhorse. You’ll die with boredom.”
“I won’t!” I laugh.
I Owe You One: A Novel Page 24