As I tap my code into the till, I’m cursing myself. There was so much I was going to do before this meeting. I was going to read through all Bob’s emails, for a start. He sends us regular financial summaries, and I wanted to have all that information up my sleeve. I was going to research competitors’ websites. I was going to get exact sales figures on all of Jake’s new stock.
I’m humming with frustration at myself as Morag approaches me, tucking her hair nervously behind her ear.
“Fixie,” she says. “Can I have a word before we open?”
“Oh,” I say. “Yes, of course!”
I turn toward her, but for a few moments she doesn’t speak. She’s looking over my shoulder, her cheeks turning pink.
“I’ve been interviewing for other jobs,” she says at last. “I’ve had an offer from that big homewares place in Kew. Suttons. And I’m thinking of taking it.”
For a full half minute I can’t speak.
Morag wants to leave?
“Morag …” I falter at last. I’m so shocked, I can’t even frame any words.
“It’s not what I wanted.” Her mouth is tight, as though she’s trying not to show that she’s upset. “You know I love Farrs, you know that, Fixie. But …” She trails off, and I can hear that there are about a million unsaid words in that but.
“Can you tell me what …” I rub my face, trying to keep my breath steady. But now that my initial shock has died down, panic is swooping in. I can’t lose Morag, I can’t. “Could you tell me your main issues?”
“Oh, Fixie, love, you know the issues.” She exhales unsteadily. “This place has changed. Half the displays have disappeared, I don’t know what we’re supposed to be selling, all the customers are complaining.…” She shakes her head. “The Christmas-cookie promotion day was a disaster! There simply wasn’t enough stock!”
“I know,” I say with a flash of painful remembrance. “Jake wanted to promote those neon novelty lamps.”
I don’t even want to think about the neon lamps. Jake landed them on us and we’ve only sold one—and it’s already been returned.
“Yes, well.” Morag’s expression tells me what she thinks of that. “And I’ve just had to cancel Cake Club for the third time—”
“The third time?” I stare at her. “Wait. I’ve missed this. What happened?”
“Nicole, of course! It’s always Nicole. A mindfulness session it was, this time. Well, all I’ll say is, do her ‘mindfulness’ friends ever come and buy so much as a whisk? Do they?” There are little red spots on Morag’s cheeks, and I realize how angry and offended she is and how I’ve been sleepwalking my way into a total disaster.
Mum, I suddenly think. What’s Mum going to say? And my stomach spasms with fresh terror, mixed with fury at myself.
“Morag,” I say desperately. “We love you. Please don’t go.”
“Suttons have said they’ll give me a regular space for the Cake Club,” says Morag, not meeting my eye. “They want to make it bigger, serve drinks, do live Internet events, whatever that is.… I don’t want to leave,” she says, her voice sharpening with distress. “None of us do. But—”
“None of us?” I echo stupidly. “What—”
“All the Cake Club members have said they’ll come with me. They’ll come to events at Suttons. It’s not too far.”
There’s a prickling silence. The subtext is obvious: They’ll do all their shopping at Suttons too.
Fear is knotting round my throat. Mum trusted us with the shop and we’ve lost our best member of staff, plus our core customers. And I know Mum put us all in charge, but I can’t help feeling responsible. I swallow hard a few times, trying to get my thoughts straight.
“You haven’t accepted Suttons yet?”
“I’ve told them I need to think.” She finally meets my gaze, her eyes sorrowful yet resolute. “But, Fixie, there’s not much to think about.”
“Morag, let me fix this.” My words come tumbling out. “Please. Let me at least come to you with a proposal. Give me forty-eight hours to … to sort it out.”
“All right,” says Morag, and she pats my arm before she walks away. But I can see she hasn’t changed her mind.
For the rest of the morning I’m in a kind of internal frenzy. I deal with customers pleasantly—but inside I’m churning. I keep thinking, How did I let this happen? I keep looking around the shop, trying to see it through Mum’s eyes. And when I do, a slightly cold feeling comes over me. It doesn’t look right. It doesn’t look Farrs.
I’m going to have it out with Nicole tonight. And Jake. I’m going to insist on a few things. Those garden lanterns have got to go. We need all our display tables back. Nicole needs to realize we’re not a yoga center, we’re a shop. I’m going to be stern, implacable …
But, oh God.
Even as I’m having these thoughts, I know I’ll let myself down. My voice will shake. I’ll stutter and flush. The ravens will flap and I’ll crumble.
On impulse, I head to the back room and dial Seb’s number. When he answers, I launch straight in: “Seb, I don’t know what to do, I have to read the riot act to Jake and Nicole tonight, but I always let myself down, I get so nervous I can’t even speak, but I have to speak—”
I break off, realizing I don’t even know what I want; I just needed to share all this with him.
“Hey!” says Seb gently. “Fixie, don’t worry. You’ve got this.” And he sounds so sure, my confidence zooms up again. Maybe I have got this. “You want me to come over for lunch? Have a sandwich, talk it through?”
—
It hadn’t occurred to me that no one at Farrs has met Seb yet. As he walks into the shop in his smart coat and kisses me, right in front of everyone, I’m aware of all the staff turning to gawp at us, in a totally unprofessional way, and I can’t help feeling proud. He looks properly handsome, his face all flushed from the cold.
“So, this is Farrs,” he says, looking around. “It’s fantastic!”
I want to say, “It’s not; it’s underperforming and it’s all my fault,” but that can wait till lunch.
“Hello, welcome to Farrs,” says Stacey, sidling up and batting her eyelashes at Seb. “Any … needs I can help you with?”
I hide a spark of frustration. Stacey must not pause suggestively before saying the word needs. I’ve told her that before. And has she unbuttoned her top?
“I’m fine,” says Seb, smiling at her. “Thanks.”
“Funny story,” says Greg, coming forward and surveying Seb with his prominent eyes. “Fixie once brought a boyfriend here and he was trying to show off with the knives and he chopped his finger off.”
There’s a stunned silence. I glance at Seb, and I can see he’s trying to think of a reply.
Oh God, if Morag leaves, how am I going to stay sane, even?
“That’s not really a funny story, is it, Greg?” I say, trying to sound relaxed while killing him with my eyes. “And it was only a tiny slice. He hardly needed to go to hospital.”
“Well, we all laughed,” says Greg with a shrug. “Didn’t last,” he says to Seb. “Don’t even remember his name now. Oh yeah, I do—Matthew McConnell.”
“OK!” I say shrilly. “Well, we’d better get going; see you later, guys.…”
I grab Seb, hustle him out of the shop, and only breathe out once we’re safely on the pavement. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be silly.” His eyes crinkle in amusement. “They’re great.”
“They’re all deranged.”
“They watch out for you. I like that.” He squeezes my hand. “Now, come on. Let me buy you lunch.”
There’s a sandwich shop opposite Farrs, and it’s too freezing to venture any farther, so we duck in there and find a tiny table at the back, where no one can overhear us.
“So.” Seb spreads his hands
, when we’re sitting down with our paninis. “You need to take charge. Sounds like a good idea to me. What’s the problem?”
“It’s Jake,” I say miserably. “He just … I just … He affects me. I need to make my case really strongly and I’m afraid that when it comes to it, I won’t.” I tug at the corner of my panini and nibble at the piece of bread.
“OK,” says Seb. “Let’s go back to the beginning. Why does Jake freak you out so much, and how?”
He looks like he really wants to know, and I’m tired of only telling half the story. So this time I go right back to our childhood, to Jake’s personality, to the way I always felt inferior to both my siblings. I talk about how my skating sucked up Mum’s attention, how my failed business sucked up Mum’s money, and how bad I felt about both of those.
And then I talk about how I feel today. The guilt. The inadequacy. My faltering voice. The ravens that flap about my face.
Seb listens silently. Occasionally his face flinches, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I have thoughts,” I conclude despairingly. “I have arguments. I can see them there, as if they’re in a thought bubble. But I can’t get them out of the thought bubble and into the air.”
Seb’s eyebrows are knitted together in a thoughtful frown. Then he looks directly at me and says, “You’re being too gentle. You need to punch through the bubble. Are you angry with your brother?”
“I am,” I say after a pause. “But I feel guilty too. I mean, he can be nice when he wants to be—”
“That wasn’t the question,” says Seb, cutting me off. “Are you angry with him?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Yes, I am. I’m angry.”
“Well, use that anger.” He leans forward, his face animated. “Feel it. Punch your way out of the bubble like a … a ninja.”
“A ninja?” I can’t help laughing.
“Yes! You have the words, you have the ideas; I know you do. You’re bright and dynamic and basically the best person I know, and to be honest the idea that some brother of yours is making you feel the way you do makes me feel pretty livid myself. I’ve only met the guy briefly, but …”
Seb smiles, but his jaw is tight and his hand has clenched hard around his panini.
“OK, I’ll be a ninja.” I stir my coffee round, gazing into the whirlpool, trying to find some strength. “I get so nervous, though. How do you do it?”
“How do I do what?” Seb seems surprised.
“You speak up at shareholders’ meetings and people shout at you and you don’t seem to care.”
“I guess I think about why I’m speaking,” says Seb thoughtfully. “Who I’m speaking for. Who I represent. I’m speaking for people who don’t have a voice, and that inspires me. That powers me along.”
He bites into his panini, then nods at me. “Eat,” he says. “Ninjas need strength.”
I take a bite of my panini, and as I’m chewing, I feel a backbone growing inside me. I’m going to speak up for Mum. She’s the one I represent. She’s the one who doesn’t have a voice right now. And that’s going to power me along.
For the rest of the lunch, we talk about general stuff, but as we’re saying goodbye, Seb holds me by both arms and looks directly into my face.
“Ninja Fixie,” he says. “You can do it.”
He kisses me and walks away, his breath a trail of steam in the winter’s air, and I tell myself firmly, I can do this, I can do this. I can.
—
All afternoon, my jaw is firm. My mind is set. I’m going to do it. I’m going to have my say.
I stay late, wandering around the displays when everyone else has gone, remembering how I used to come to Farrs when I was a little girl and it seemed enormous. I remember hiding in cardboard boxes in the back room, and Dad “finding” me. I remember trips to the storage facility being the most exciting thing in the world. I remember breaking a plate when I was seven and being terrified and trying to mend it with Sellotape—until Mum found me, crouched behind a display, and scooped me in for a hug.
This place is my life.
There’s a sound at the door and I look up in surprise to see Bob coming in, wrapped up against the cold in his usual beige anorak, plus a scarf and woolly hat.
“Fixie!” he says. “I hoped you’d still be around. I left my pullover here yesterday.” He clicks his tongue in mild self-reproach. “I’m seeing my sister tonight, and she gave it to me for my birthday, so I want to wear it, of course. We always give each other M&S pullovers,” he adds. “You can’t go wrong, can you?”
“No,” I agree. “You can’t go wrong.”
I wait for him to pop into the back room and retrieve the pullover. Then, as he’s walking toward me, I say impulsively, “Bob, are we OK?”
“OK?” Bob instinctively glances around, as though I meant, “Bob, are we facing imminent attack?”
“OK,” I repeat. “Financially. I know you send me figures all the time, but I don’t always … I mean, recently …” I stop feebly, not wanting to admit the truth, which is: “I’ve been too wrapped up in my new love affair to look at any figures.”
Bob puffs out air, as though considering what to say, and I feel a sudden pang of dread.
“We’re OK,” he says at last. “Not bad. It’s not a disaster.”
It’s not a disaster?
I stare at him, trying not to look as stricken I feel. I was hoping for better than “It’s not a disaster.”
“Sales aren’t as good as last year, no one can deny that, but there’s a while before Christmas, so it’s still all to play for. I’m sure you’ve got lots up your sleeve,” Bob adds encouragingly, and his optimism makes me feel warm with shame. “What we really need,” he adds, as though getting to the nub of the issue, “is a bit of an upswing.”
We need a bit of an upswing. How are we going to get an upswing?
“Thanks, Bob.” I try to sound breezy, as though getting worrying news is something I deal with in my stride. “Great. Good to know. So. We’ll … work on that.”
“One thing I was wondering about, though …” Bob takes a few steps toward me, with an odd expression I can’t quite read. “These loans we’ve been making. Will this be a regular thing?”
“What loans?”
“These loans to Jake.”
The world seems to slide beneath my feet.
“What … loans to Jake?” I manage to say lightly. “I don’t … I don’t know about those, I don’t think.”
“Ah,” says Bob after a pause. “I wondered. Three bank transfers I’ve made to him since your mum left. Quite big sums.” Bob gives an awkward laugh, but his eyes are troubled. “I know your mum okayed the first one, but the last two have just been on Jake’s say-so.”
“Jake’s say-so?” I echo incredulously.
“Well, your uncle Ned confirmed it and told me not to bother your mum about it. He was quite firm on that. And obviously it’s none of my beeswax, it’s a family thing, it’s not for me to …” He takes a step backward, his eyes raised to the ceiling as though emphasizing his position, not in the family. “But like I say, it’s quite a lot of money, so I’d have thought you’d be in the loop, Fixie.”
I can’t reply. My head feels like it’s imploding. Jake’s been borrowing money from Farrs without even telling Mum? I suddenly remember him coming into the shop that time. Asking where Bob was but not telling me why. Obsessed by his phone. I remember thinking that he’s always been about more, Jake. I wondered how he was paying for it all. Well, now I know.
“Only there hasn’t been any talk of repayment, so to speak,” Bob adds distantly. “If this happens every month, it’ll make quite a hole in the books. And if your mum was looking to sell, then … Well. It’s not the best time to be losing all this cash. Although as I say, none of my beeswax.”
Finally he lowers his gaze to meet mine. I’ve
known Bob a long time and I know what his kindly eyes are saying. They’re saying, “This isn’t right.” They’re saying, “Do something.”
“Right,” I manage. “Well … thanks, Bob. Thanks.” I start to walk away, then come back as a thought hits me. “Why didn’t Uncle Ned want to bother Mum?”
“Oh …” Bob’s eyes slide away again to the ceiling. “Your uncle likes feeling he’s got the power, I think. Some people are like that.”
This is so daring and disloyal a thing for Bob to say that I stare at him.
“He helped out with the lease,” I say automatically, because that’s what we always say about Uncle Ned. “He got us good terms.”
There’s a long silence. I can see a kind of ripple effect on Bob’s face. As if he’s trying to hold something back. Oh my God.
“Didn’t he?” I whisper.
“Your mum was touched that your uncle stepped in,” says Bob at last. “She kept saying, ‘Oh, Bob, he’s such a rock.’ I wasn’t going to mess that up.” His gentle eyes meet mine in a smile. “I’m fond of your mum.”
I feel like everything’s shifting in my brain.
“Bob,” I say bluntly. “Tell me the truth. Who really negotiated the lease?”
“Your uncle made a call or two,” says Bob after a pause. “Didn’t really help things along.” He gives a gentle, reminiscent laugh. “He put his foot in it, to tell you the truth. Insulted the lady at the property company.”
“So it was you who got us that great deal.”
“They were good terms, yes,” says Bob, with the barest hint of pride. “It was the least I could do for your dad.”
I rub my head, feeling suddenly almost tearful. “Bob … I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing to say,” Bob replies in his mild way. “I was pleased to do it. If you do speak to your mum,” he adds, “give her my regards.”
I watch as he makes his way out of the shop, his shoes squeaking on the floor. I half want to run after him and beg for more advice—but he’s done more than enough. He’s gone the extra mile. Now it’s my turn to go the extra mile. But in which direction?
My brain is boiling over with new information. With worry. With indecision. At last I start dialing Mum’s number, then stop, then start again. Not because I’m going to rat on Jake, but because I need to know, I need facts. What’s going on?
I Owe You One: A Novel Page 27