I Owe You One: A Novel

by Sophie Kinsella

  —

  As Leila opens the front door, my heart drops. She looks shrunken and there are shadows under her eyes too.

  “Hi, Leila!” I clasp her warmly, and I swear she’s lost half a stone. “It’s been ages! I just fancied a manicure.”

  “I thought you were having dinner with Jakey?” she says, looking anxiously past me as though expecting to see Jake too.

  “I left them to it,” I say easily. “You know what they’re like. Six bottles of wine each.”

  “I’ve told Jake to stop drinking,” says Leila, and her face becomes even more drawn and I feel a swell of panic, because none of this feels good. I follow Leila into the living room and stop dead at the sight of the big empty wall in front of me, wires trailing from four points.

  “What’s happened to the telly?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Are you getting a new one?”

  The words are out before I have a horrible, sinking suspicion.

  “It went,” says Leila, after a pause. She picks up a plastic bowl from the coffee table and gestures to the sofa. “Sit down. I’ll get some warm water.”

  “It ‘went’?”

  “They took it away.” She flashes me a smile, which I don’t believe in for a moment. “It’s fine, I watch all the soaps on my laptop.”

  I sit down warily, looking around at Jake’s flash pad, full of leather and glass and glossy magazines. It always seemed like the pinnacle of achievement, this flat. Now it all seems kind of … perilous.

  As Leila sits down and instructs me to put my hands in the bowl of water, I eye her closely. She looks on edge. Frail, almost. I don’t want to freak her out by firing questions at her, but I have to know. I have to know.

  “Leila,” I say, in my quietest voice. “Is Jake in trouble?”

  For a long time, Leila doesn’t answer. She’s washing my hands, rhythmically, her gaze distant. Then she raises her head.

  “Oh, Fixie,” she says in a trembling voice, and the look in her huge eyes makes me suddenly fearful. “Of course he is. But he won’t admit it. He won’t talk about it. I only hear bits and pieces. I’ve said to him, ‘Jakey, what’s going on?’ But he gets so angry.…” She adds, more calmly, “If you could place your right hand on the towel?”

  As she starts on my cuticles, I say, “He’s been taking money from Farrs.”

  “Taking money?” Leila’s eyes widen. “Stealing?”

  “No, not stealing,” I hastily assure her. “Just loans. But what I don’t get is, why does he need them?”

  “He can’t get finance.” Leila’s hands quiver as she dunks my fingers back in the bowl. “That’s all he talks about, getting finance. If you could please place your other hand on the towel?”

  “But I thought everything was going well? I thought he was doing something with manufactured diamonds?”

  At once Leila starts. Her hands quiver even more and her eyelids flutter.

  “Would you like me to clip or file?” she says, her voice jumpy.

  “Er … don’t mind. You choose.”

  I wait while she gets out her manicure implements and lays them carefully on the towel, side by side, as though trying to impose order on the world. Then finally she meets my eye.

  “He doesn’t know I know this,” she practically whispers. “But the diamonds were a scam.”

  “A scam?”

  Leila nods, and for a moment we stare at each other. My mind is processing what a scam might mean. How damaging it might have been. How humiliating.

  “Did he lose …” I can’t even say it.

  “Loads,” she says, her voice not working properly. “He’s in big trouble. But he won’t see it, he won’t stop spending money, taking people out for lunch, trying to be flash …” Her eyes fill with tears and I stare at her, aghast. “Oh. We haven’t chosen you a color yet. I’ve got a lovely new amber shade. I think it would really suit you.”

  She pulls her case of nail polishes onto her knee and a tear drips down onto it.

  “Oh, Leila …” I put a hand on her arm, but she shoots me a bright smile.

  “Or lilac,” she says, opening the lid. “With your lovely dark eyes. Or classic red?”

  “Leila …” I squeeze her. “He’s so lucky to have you.”

  “Oh, I don’t do anything,” says Leila, patting at her eyes. “I just do my nails and keep my head down. That’s it. Nails. That’s my life. But I understand nails,” she adds, looking up with a sudden passion. “I understand how I’m earning my wage. I give you a manicure; you pay me. That makes sense. Whereas what Jakey does …”

  “What does he do?” I ask, because it’s something I’ve often wondered. “I mean, his MBA course, obviously …”

  “Oh, he dropped out of that months ago,” says Leila. “He said the tutors were all useless.”

  I should feel shocked, but somehow I don’t. Not now.

  “He talks as though he’s still doing it,” I say. “Mum thinks he’s still doing it. Everyone does.”

  “I know.” Leila bites her lip. “I’ve said to him, ‘Jakey, you should tell your family.’ ”

  He dropped out of his MBA but he didn’t volunteer to do any more work at the shop, I silently register. Yet he’s taken all these loans from it.

  “So what does he do all day?” I persist. “How does he make all his money?”

  “He made a lot out of those nude knickers,” says Leila, her brows winged anxiously. “That was a good deal. They were a good product. I wear them myself!” she adds, with a brief show of brightness. “But ever since then …” She trails into silence.

  “But that was two years ago.” I stare at her. “Hasn’t he done any more deals since then? I thought …”

  Jake talks as though he’s made a million deals, each more profitable than the last. He drops constant references to “export” and “my latest venture” and deals which are “on the horizon.” We’ve never questioned him, we’ve only listened, awed.

  Leila still hasn’t replied. She’s busying herself with bottles of topcoat.

  “Leila?” I say more urgently. “Has he?”

  “I don’t think so,” she whispers at last. “He just has lunch with people. That’s what I don’t get. How does having lunch earn you money?” she says in sudden bewilderment. “I like a job I can see.” She pats her manicure case. “I like work. So, if you give me your right hand again …” she adds, in her manicurist’s voice.

  I watch silently as she starts filing my nails. The rhythmic action of her file is kind of mesmerizing and soothing. It’s reassuring. For both of us, I suspect.

  “I knew he was stressed out,” I say after a while. “But I had no idea …”

  “He’s secretive,” says Leila. “He doesn’t even tell me everything. He wants everyone to think he’s …” She pauses as though thinking how to put it. “Winning. Master of the universe.”

  “I thought maybe he was burned out from too many deals.”

  “It’s the opposite!” Leila replies, her voice wavering between a sob and a laugh. “It’s not enough deals! It’s no income! Nothing to pay the mortgage!”

  “But you’re still with him?” I blurt out the question before I can stop myself. For a moment Leila stops filing my nails and I worry that I’ve offended her. But when she looks up, her gaze is nothing but wistful.

  “Jake’s been good to me. I’m not going to abandon him, just because …” She hesitates, her eyes dimming slightly. “I know some people find him a bit … much. But he’s got a softer side, you know.”

  “I know.” I nod.

  “Jakey talks about life. He has interesting ideas. He’s fun. He wants to do things, you know? Some men, they don’t want to do anything or go anywhere.”

  “Jake’s never had that problem,” I say in wry tones, and Leila smiles, then wipes her wet eyes and resumes
filing.

  When both my hands are done, she pats them dry and starts to apply a base coat.

  “Did you choose a color yet?” she asks, and I point randomly to the lilac nail polish.

  “Lovely choice!” says Leila, and she starts to unscrew the pot. And we’re both so calm and peaceful now, I almost don’t want to ruin the atmosphere, but I have to ask one more question.

  “So what’s Jake going to do now?”

  Leila exhales in a shuddery breath and stares down at the nail-polish pot, blinking hard.

  “Get some money from somewhere,” she says at last. “I said to him, ‘Jakey, get a job! A job!’ But you know what he’s like.…”

  “Where will he get more money?” I say bluntly.

  Slowly, Leila’s skinny arms and shoulders rise up in the most hopeless shrug I’ve ever seen. For a few moments we’re both silent, because what is there to say? Then Leila’s eyes brighten.

  “I could put a shimmer on top of the lilac,” she says. “I’ve got a lovely new product, shall I show you?”

  I know displacement when I see it. Her hands are trembling as she reaches for the pot and her eyes are shadowy and I decide we’ve talked enough about Jake.

  “That sounds amazing,” I say, as warmly as I can. “Leila, you’re brilliant.”

  And she is brilliant. As I’m heading to Seb’s later, I keep staring at my immaculate shimmery lilac nails and thinking, I should get Leila to do this every week.

  But that’s only about 5 percent of my brain. The rest is remembering Jake’s angry bravado. And Leila’s shadowy eyes. And that bare wall with wires hanging out of it. All my adrenaline from earlier on has seeped away, leaving me flatter than I’ve been for ages. I feel pale and washed out and strained.

  Seb buzzes me in and I travel up in the lift to his flat. He’s waiting there, the front door flung open.

  “So, did you do it?” he asks at once, his face bright and expectant. “Were you Ninja Fixie?”

  I stare at him for a moment, rewinding to the restaurant. Yes, I was assertive. I said what I thought. I was Ninja Fixie. But that all seems dwarfed now by my discoveries about Jake.

  “Yes!” I say. “Kind of. Uncle Ned was offended. He stormed out.”

  “Excellent!” Seb grins. “Every good shareholders’ meeting needs someone storming out in dudgeon. Come on, sit down and relax. You look knackered.” He kisses me and ushers me in, and I follow, my head still trying to make sense of the evening.

  “Oh, you’ll never guess what,” I say, suddenly remembering. “I saw Ryan.”

  “Ryan?” Seb echoes, his face instantly tightening, and I immediately regret mentioning him.

  “Only for, like, a nanosecond,” I say quickly. “I definitely put him straight.”

  “Good,” says Seb, after a pause. “Glad to hear it. So, a good evening?”

  I sink down at his little kitchen table, feeling my last vestiges of energy slip away. “Actually, no. It was awful.”

  I fight an urge to burst into tears. I think a kind of delayed shock is hitting me. Shock at Jake’s aggression toward me. Shock at the truth behind it.

  “Awful?” Seb hands me a glass of wine. “Why?”

  “Thanks,” I say. “It’s … well, it’s Jake.”

  “What about Jake?”

  I hesitate, sipping the wine, trying to work out what to say. I can’t blurt out that Jake’s in debt. Leila told me in confidence and he’s family and it might not be as bad as she thinks and … I just can’t, not even to Seb.

  “He’s got some issues,” I say at last. “Work issues. It’s all quite worrying.”

  “Right,” says Seb carefully. “But that’s his problem, isn’t it? Not yours?”

  “But it involves Mum,” I say despairingly. “I have to do something, but I don’t know what.…” I rub my face. “Everything’s got worse than I thought.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Seb peers at me anxiously for a moment, then reaches for a plate on the counter. “Have some fudge.”

  I stare incredulously at the crumbly, delicious-looking cubes. “Is that homemade fudge?”

  “I thought you might like a treat when you got back. I like making fudge,” Seb adds with a shrug. “It’s easy. I’ve been making it since I was seven.”

  I take a piece and put it in my mouth and it’s like a burst of comfort. Sweet, rich, total indulgence.

  “Thank you,” I say, after a few moments of chewing. “Thank you for making me fudge.”

  “Well, you did save my life,” says Seb, glancing at the coffee sleeve, which is just visible in my tote bag. “Fudge is the very least I owe you.” He shoots me a teasing grin, but this time I don’t smile back. I don’t know why, but his words have flicked me on the raw. I can’t smile. I can’t joke. I don’t find the coffee sleeve charming or amusing anymore; I find it grating.

  I finish my piece of fudge, then say, without looking at him, “Are we going to do this forever?”

  “Do what?” Seb sounds confused.

  “Tit for tat. I owe you. You owe me. Would you have made me fudge if I hadn’t saved your life?”

  “Of course!” Seb gives a shocked laugh. “It’s only a joke!”

  “Well, maybe I’m tired of the joke,” I say, still staring down at the table. “Is it never going to end? You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours? Backward and forward, totting up what we owe each other, and we’d better settle up or else?”

  I’m speaking faster and faster, and my face is getting hot. I don’t feel totally in control of myself.

  “Fixie,” says Seb. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” I say miserably. “But I wish you’d just said, ‘I’ve made you some fudge.’ The end.”

  “I think you’re overreacting,” says Seb, a hint of impatience in his voice. “All friends do favors for each other.”

  “Maybe they do, but they’re not counted out. They’re not itemized. They’re not presented on a spreadsheet.”

  “No one’s got a spreadsheet, for God’s sake!” exclaims Seb angrily.

  “What’s this?” Getting to my feet, I take the coffee sleeve out of my tote bag and brandish it at him.

  “For fuck’s sake!” Seb sounds hurt. “I thought it was fun.”

  “Well, I thought so too,” I say, my voice trembling. “But it doesn’t feel like fun anymore.”

  “Why not?” he demands, almost furiously.

  “Because I want to love you!”

  My words spill out before I can stop them, and at once I catch my breath. I’m about to say hurriedly, “I didn’t mean it,” but that would be a lie. Because I did mean it. So I just stand there, panting slightly, my face turning deep crimson.

  “Well, I want to love you,” says Seb, after what seems like an endless pause. “Is there a problem with that?”

  My stomach starts turning over painfully. We hadn’t ever used the word love, and now we’ve both said it. Seb’s eyes meet mine, infinitely affectionate and warm, and I know this is my cue to run into his arms and forget everything else … but I can’t. I have to make my point.

  “There’s a problem with this!” I jab despairingly at the coffee sleeve. “Love isn’t transactional! It’s not about what can you do for each other.” I gaze at him, desperate for him to understand. “Love means all debts are off.”

  “Well, they are off!”

  “They’re not! Even if I get rid of this”—I thrust the coffee sleeve back into my tote bag, then jab my head—“they’re here!”

  For a moment we’re silent. The air between us is crackling with tension. I feel like love is on the other side of an invisible wall and neither of us knows how to get there.

  “What do you want from me, Fixie?” says Seb at last, sounding a little weary, and I swallow hard, my head racing with though
ts.

  “I wish we could go back to that coffee shop,” I say at last. “And we’d meet. And you’d say, ‘Hi. I’m Sebastian.’ And I’d say, ‘Hi. I’m Fixie.’ And there wouldn’t be any favors or owing or receipts or tallies or anything.”

  “Yes. Well.” Seb shrugs unsmilingly. “You can’t go back in time and do life a different way. That’s not how it works.”

  “I know.” I feel a prickle of irritation. “I was just saying. You asked.”

  “Have another piece of fudge,” says Seb pleasantly, but with an edge to his voice. “With no debt or obligation attached whatsoever.”

  “Thanks.” I match his sarcastic tone.

  He passes me the plate and I take a piece and for a few moments we’re silent, until Seb suddenly draws breath, his face working with thoughts I can’t guess.

  “You think love isn’t transactional?” he says. “That’s what you’re telling me? Then I have a question. Why do you run around, constantly doing too much for your family?”

  “What?” I give a shocked, incredulous laugh. “No, I don’t!”

  “Is it because of love?” he continues, ignoring me. “Or is it because you feel you owe them? Or is it guilt? Because that’s a toxic, subprime, never-ending debt, and you need to get rid of it.”

  Everything he’s saying is touching a nerve. But I can’t admit it.

  “I don’t do too much for my family.” I glower at him.

  “All I hear about is what can you do for your mother, your family, the business. You work harder than any of them. You clear up their messes. Your brother has problems and you want to sort them out! Why should you? Let him sort it out!”

  I can’t help it; I’m starting to bristle. If people attack my family, I defend them. It’s how I’m made.

  “Look, you wouldn’t understand,” I say tightly.

  “Because I don’t have a family?” he shoots back, equally tightly, and I blink in shock.

  “No! Of course not! I only meant … We’re very close. We have a motto—”

  “I know,” he cuts me off. “Family first. When did they last put you first, Fixie?”

  I stare back, my face prickling. I feel like he’s taking each of my most hidden, most painful feelings and holding them up to the light to brush them down—and it hurts. I want him to stop.