“Hello! Fixie?” a cheery familiar voice answers. “That you, love?”
“Hi, Aunty Karen,” I say, trying to sound relaxed and calm. “Is Mum there, by any chance?”
“Oh, darling, she’s fast asleep. Feeling a bit poorly. She’s come down with a virus or something. Overdid it with our trip to Granada, probably. We only got back last night. Oh, Fixie, it’s fabulous! The tiles!”
“What about Mum?” I say anxiously. “Is she OK?”
“I’ll take her to the doctor tomorrow,” says Aunty Karen reassuringly. “If they don’t give her any medication, I know where I can get some, dirt cheap. Now, love, I’m trying to persuade your mum to stay with me for Christmas. You wouldn’t mind, would you? You’re all grown-ups. Probably off doing your own thing!”
I stare at the phone, dismayed. Christmas without Mum? Without Mum?
I’ve always assumed she’ll be home by then. I’ve always had that thought there in my mind, like an anchor: Mum’ll be home.
“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound as hollow as I feel. “Well … you know. Mum should do what she wants.”
“That’s what I said!” cries Aunty Karen triumphantly. “I said, ‘You relax, Joanne! I’ll cook, and it’s eggnog all the way!’ ”
“Well, give her my love,” I say, forcing a bright tone. “I hope she gets better soon. Keep me posted. And let us know if there’s anything we can do.”
“Of course,” says Aunty Karen comfortably. “And are you all OK? Jake? Nicole?”
“Yes, we’re fine.”
“Oh, and how’s the shop?” she adds. “I know your mum’ll ask me. She’ll say, ‘Didn’t you ask about the shop, Karen? How could you not ask about the shop?’ She loves that shop like another child!”
Aunty Karen hoots with laughter and I look around at the shop that Mum loves so much, feeling even more hollow.
“It’s … great!” I say. “All good.”
“Marvelous. Well, take care, Fixie!”
“You too,” I say, and ring off feeling like I always do after conversations with Aunty Karen: as though a tornado has blown away.
So that road is closed. I’m not bothering Mum about Jake, not when she’s ill. I’m going to have to do this on my own.
Come on, Fixie. Come on.
I catch sight of my own reflection in the shop-front glass and do a sudden impulsive front kick, punching the air like a kickboxer. Then I do another, then another, moving forward, panting a little with the effort. My chin is jutting out and my expression is fierce and I probably look like an idiot—but I don’t care. I feel stronger with every kick. I can do this.
Ninja Fixie. Bring it on.
Twenty-two
Uncle Ned has booked yet another grand restaurant for our meeting, this one on Piccadilly. As I’m on the way there, I cut through a shopping arcade to get out of the freezing cold and am immediately hit by warmth and light and a smell of cinnamon. The marble-floored atrium is filled with pop-up stalls selling scented candles and seasonal goods. Christmas songs are blaring through the sound system. A full-sized snowman is wandering around, making children laugh. It’s all very festive, only I don’t feel in a festive mood. I feel jagged and angry.
I’m striding along, practicing what I’ll say to Jake, ignoring invitations to try out smoothies and massage chairs—when a familiar voice hits my ears and I stop dead. No way.
No way.
“I’m a makeup artist,” he’s saying. “And you have a really interesting face, did you know that?”
I swivel slowly on my heel, and there he is. Ryan Chalker. As handsome as ever, wearing a black shirt and trousers, standing next to a pop-up stall covered in pots of face cream.
I wait for the familiar reaction to hit me. I wait for my breath to shorten and my heart to swoop. But the magic has gone. After all these years, the magic has gone. All I can see is a smooth-faced chancer. He’s addressing a frowsy-looking woman in a parka, and I can tell, he’s getting through to her.
“You remind me of this model I used to work with on magazine shoots,” he says brazenly, and I breathe in sharply with indignation. Since when did Ryan work on magazine shoots as a makeup artist?
“Really?” I can see the woman blossoming under his compliments.
“You have beautiful skin,” he assures her. “But I bet your husband tells you that every day.”
God, he’s good. Of course the husband never says a word to her, and now this woman is putty in Ryan’s hands.
“Who does your eyebrows?” he demands now.
“I do,” she admits.
“No.” Ryan’s eyes widen. “They’re amazing! Don’t let anyone touch them. Are you over thirty-five?”
“A bit.” The woman flushes.
I mean, she’s about fifty. Even I can tell that.
“Not by much,” says Ryan firmly. “So tell me, darling, do you use eye cream?”
“A bit.” Her eyes swivel evasively. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” Ryan looks devastated. “Sweetheart, look after your skin. I don’t care whose products you use, but for me, start using eye cream, yeah? I’m going to give you a free sample …” He’s swiftly undoing a little pot. “Can I put this on you? You don’t mind?”
He smears some goo on the woman’s face, then brandishes a mirror at her. “Can you see that? Can you see the transformation? And that’s on one use! It’s not surgical, but it’s surgical.”
It’s not surgical, but it’s surgical? Is he even allowed to say that?
I’m bristling with outrage as I watch. That woman has so not been transformed, but she’s gazing at herself, transfixed. I don’t know what Ryan’s doing with angles or lights or simply the power of suggestion, but it’s working.
“And we’re doing two pots for the price of one today,” he says smoothly. “You know what an eye lift costs? You know how many thousands? This is a tenth of the price.”
He shows the woman a price list and she blanches. At once Ryan says, lowering his voice, “You know what? I shouldn’t do this, but just for you, let’s knock ten percent off. I’ll get in trouble, but … hey. It’s Christmas.”
“Really?” The woman looks at him so trustingly that I can’t bear it any longer.
“Hi there!” I say brightly, striding up to them, and Ryan gives such a startled jump, I grin inwardly.
“Oh, hello,” says the woman, looking disconcerted.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I’d hold off if I were you,” I say pleasantly. “I once bought some eye cream from some random person in a mall and it gave me hives. I’m sure this nice man will give you some samples and you can try them properly at home. Maybe get another opinion from a friend before you lash out all that money?” I smile sweetly at Ryan. “Wouldn’t you agree, sir? With all your experience as a ‘makeup artist’?”
“Actually, I should be going,” says the woman, looking flustered. “Thanks anyway,” she says over her shoulder to Ryan as she hurries off.
“ ‘Makeup artist,’ ” I say scathingly. “You’re evil.”
Ryan stares at me consideringly for a moment, then throws his head back and laughs.
“Fixie,” he says. “You’ve got such a good conscience. You make me feel like a better person.” And he smiles at me, his eyes as devastatingly blue as ever.
Once upon a time, that smile would have made my heart flutter. My doubts would have receded; I would have run back to him. But not today.
“Well, you make me feel like a worse person,” I say coldly, and Ryan laughs again.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, and I stare at him in disbelief. He’s missed me? I feel a sudden furious urge to yell at him, to hit him, to make him suffer.
But almost at once it subsides. Ryan’s pathological, I’ve realized. He says anything to anyone to get out of whatever situation he’s in. Truth doe
sn’t count, integrity doesn’t count, love doesn’t even figure. Yelling at him would be like yelling at a rock. It’s never going to change.
I’m just glad the magic has gone. I’m free of him. About bloody time.
“I’m not going to say, ‘See you,’ ” I inform him politely. “Because I don’t want to see you, ever again. Goodbye.”
As I walk off I can hear him laughing again, only the sound is a little more forced, and I briefly wonder if there’s any kind of regret or understanding in his eyes. But I honestly can’t be bothered to look.
—
And then I’ve reached the entrance to the restaurant and my heart is pounding. Because standing up to Ryan was like a warm-up, but this is the real deal.
The maître d’ shows me to our table, where I find Uncle Ned lounging on a banquette, holding what looks like a gin and tonic. Jake is holding one too, and Nicole has a glass of what I’m sure is champagne.
“Fixie!” Uncle Ned greets me. “Take a seat. Have a drink, m’dear.” His face is nearly as red as the velvet seat. Did he start early? Looking around at the flushed faces, I wonder: Did they all start early? Jake’s eyes are bloodshot, I notice, and he still has those shadows under them.
“What?” he says defensively, as he feels my eyes on him. “Oh, by the way, I’ve got some good news for you. Ryan’s back in London.”
“I’ve just seen him,” I say shortly as I take a chair. “And it’s not good news.”
“Now, I rather like the look of the porterhouse steak,” says Uncle Ned, squinting at a big leather menu.
I bet he bloody does, I think—but force myself to stay calm. I’m a ninja, sizing up my opponents, slow and focused, before I strike.
“Would you like a drink?” a waiter asks me.
“No, thanks,” I say politely, and wait till he’s gone before adding, “I won’t spend Farrs’ money here. This is totally inappropriate. Totally inappropriate,” I repeat for emphasis, and jab at all their expensive drinks with my finger.
“What?” says Nicole blankly.
“Inappropriate?” splutters Uncle Ned.
“What exactly are we achieving here, except spending money?” I look from face to face. “Nothing.”
“Now, really.” Uncle Ned’s face becomes puce. “Here I am, giving freely of my time and advice—”
“Do you even know how our sales are doing?” I cut him off, sweeping my gaze around the table. “Do any of you? But here you all are, ordering cocktails and steak. It’s freeloading and it’s revolting and I’m not doing it.”
“What the fuck!” exclaims Jake, staring at me. “What’s got into you?”
“It’s her new boyfriend,” says Nicole, in sudden inspiration. “That’s what it is. He’s put her up to it.”
“What new boyfriend?” Jake swivels to face her.
“Sebastian Whatsit. The guy who was Ryan’s boss? She’s, like, practically living with him.”
“You’re going out with him?” says Jake incredulously. “The investment guy?”
“That’s irrelevant,” I say shortly. “And I have some other things to say.”
My words are hovering in a thought bubble, like they always are, all neatly formed. Come on, Ninja Fixie. Say them.
I draw breath—then make the mistake of glancing at Jake. His face is so aggressive that for a moment I can feel the old feelings resurfacing. Inadequate. Guilty. Inferior. Rubbish.
But I have to punch through those feelings. Go, Fixie, go.
“Nicole, you have to cancel all your yoga,” I say firmly. “It’s disruptive and it hasn’t attracted any new customers; it’s just made problems. It has to stop and I’m restocking the shop, my way.”
Pow.
“Disruptive?” says Nicole, sounding offended.
“Yes, disruptive. And, Jake, for you I have a question.” I turn to him, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Why are you borrowing so much money from Farrs and when are you paying it back and why wasn’t it mentioned at the last meeting?”
Bam.
I can see the light of shock in Jake’s eyes, but almost at once he’s regained his swaggering demeanor.
“It’s an inter-business loan,” he drawls, taking a sip of his drink. “Really, Fixie, you are getting your knickers in a twist.”
“I didn’t know we could take out loans,” says Nicole with interest. “That’s cool.”
“We can’t!” I practically shout. “Why do you need loans from Farrs, anyway, Jake?” I say in a calmer, more diplomatic voice. “What’s going on? Why didn’t you just say to us this was happening? And why keep it from Mum?”
I lean forward, trying to get through to the man I saw the other day. The one who talked to me with respect and affection, who felt like a real brother.
But that Jake has vanished. This one won’t even meet my eye.
“Nothing’s ‘going on,’ ” he says with elaborate sarcasm. “I’ve had a holdup in Asia. It’s simply a cash-flow thing.” He sounds dismissive, although I can see his fingers clenching the menu tightly and a vein throbbing at his temple. “You’re really quite unsophisticated, Fixie. Do you have any idea about global export deals? No. So take it from me, there’s nothing to worry about. Now, are we going to order some food?”
“Yes,” says Uncle Ned emphatically.
Is that all they can think about? Food? My attempt at calmness instantly vanishes. I’m going to punch and kick as hard as I can.
“You’re all users!” I spit. “You’re only interested in how much expensive food you can eat. Porterhouse steak? At …” I grab the menu, to check the price. “At thirty quid? This is Mum’s business! Not a piggy bank!”
“And this is a business dinner!” says Jake.
“You treat the business like a joke!” I retort. “You don’t care about it! How many times have you been to the shop since Mum went away, Uncle Ned? Once?”
“After all I’ve done for you!” huffs Uncle Ned, looking livid. “After your father died—”
“Oh, that’s right, you negotiated our lease,” I cut in scathingly. “Did you really, Uncle Ned? Or did Bob have anything to do with it?”
“I have never been so offended in my life!” Uncle Ned’s voice is trembling with fury. He thumps down his drink and shoots a glare at me. “I don’t have to be here, you know. I’m giving up my time, simply out of the goodness of my heart, simply because your mother asked me to, because every organization needs a Man of the House—”
“Not us,” I cut him off. “Mum was mistaken. We don’t need a Man of the House.” And I stare at him silently, steel in my eyes.
Kapow.
“I’m going!” says Uncle Ned, his fleshy neck wobbling as he gets to his feet. “I won’t take this anymore. Never been so offended,” he mutters as he heads toward the exit. “Never been so insulted.”
“Oh my God,” says Nicole, as she watches him leave. “You’ve started something now, Fixie.”
“Good,” I say, unrepentant. “I wanted to start something.”
“Fixie, cut it out,” says Jake, sounding properly irate. “You’re embarrassing yourself and us.”
“I’m not. I just want a few answers. Why are you borrowing all that money, Jake? What’s it for? When will you pay it back? What exactly have you told Mum?”
“For God’s sake!” Jake almost shouts, as though I’ve scalded him. “Why are you so obsessed? The business will be ours one day. What’s the difference?”
“Mum might want to sell it! That’s her retirement fund! We have to keep it safe!” I swivel to Nicole. “Did you know Jake was taking so much money out of the business?”
“No,” says Nicole with a shrug. “I mean, like, that’s really …”
“As I say, it’s a business-to-business loan,” says Jake tightly, and takes another swig of his drink. “It’s perfectly st
andard.”
“But why can’t you go to the bank?” I persist. “Why do you need to keep raiding Farrs? I mean, once I get, but three times?”
For a moment Jake looks as though he wants to hit me, almost. But he reins it in and even manages a taut smile, though his eyes are incandescent with fury.
“You really don’t understand anything, do you?” he says. “Poor naïve little Fixie. Have a drink. Calm down.”
“No, thanks.” I meet his gaze evenly. “I’m not drinking overpriced cocktails on Mum’s expense. And I’m not ‘Little Fixie.’ If you won’t talk about it properly, I’ll leave. But I haven’t finished,” I add, looking from face to face. “This isn’t over.”
Bam. Kapow. Crunch.
As I stride out of the restaurant, adrenaline is rushing through me, and I’m breathing hard. I don’t quite know what to think. Did I achieve anything just now, except offend Uncle Ned and make a fool of myself? Was that a success or a fail?
I stand on the pavement for a while, the icy wind in my face, trying to sort out my jumbled thoughts and make a plan for what to do next. Go back to Seb’s is the obvious one. Have some food. Relax. I’ve said my piece; what more can I do right now?
But for some reason I don’t move. And gradually I become aware that my fingers are drumming in the way they do. My feet have started pacing: forward-across-back, forward-across-back.
Something’s bugging me. What’s bugging me?
It’s Jake, I suddenly realize. His strained face. That vein throbbing at his temple. His raw anger. The way he batted me away, again and again.
I’m used to Jake being impatient and sarcastic. But I’m not used to him looking like a cornered tiger. He looked evasive. He looked on the edge. Amid the flashes of anger, I realize, I saw flashes of fear.
A bad feeling is coming over me. I think for a few moments, then pull out my phone and dial a number.
“Oh, hi,” I say when it’s answered. “Is that you, Leila?”
I Owe You One: A Novel Page 28