I Owe You One: A Novel

by Sophie Kinsella

  “My family may be a distant memory,” says Seb, “but what I do remember about them is that love isn’t acting like a doormat. Love can be tough. Sometimes love has to be tough.”

  “You think I’m a doormat?” I say, breathing hard.

  “I didn’t say that. But I think you need to start thinking less about what you owe other people and more about what you owe yourself.”

  I know what he’s saying makes sense. But at the same time, he’s making me feel so stupid. Such a mug. And I can’t bear it.

  “So, what, just stop caring?” I lash back.

  “It’s not that!” he says hotly. “But you have to care for yourself! You have to be strong. Don’t let them make you feel bad about yourself. Try to … I don’t know. Block them out.”

  “Oh, right.” I hear my stream of hostile words before I can stop them. “Easy. Block out my family. Like you block out your brother? Shut the door and turn the key and look away? Just because you can’t see a bin full of bottles doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

  There’s a monumental, terrible silence. Seb looks like I’ve bludgeoned him.

  “How do you know what’s in that room?” he says at last, and his voice has lost all its volume and spirit.

  “I’m sorry.” I rub my face. “I … I took the key. I looked.”

  The atmosphere has disintegrated. I take a step forward, trying to be conciliatory, but Seb doesn’t react. His face is pale and distant, as though I’m not even here. I look at the plate of fudge and suddenly realize that if he’s been making it since he was seven, he probably made it with his brother.

  “Seb—”

  “It’s fine,” he says, looking at me as though I’m a stranger. “It’s fine. Really.”

  “It’s not fine.”

  “It’s fine,” he repeats. “Let’s not talk about it.”

  His face is all closed up and his voice has lost all its warmth. I feel like I’ve been excommunicated.

  “You don’t have to look at me like that,” I say in a defensive rush.

  “Like what?”

  “Like I meant to hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “You pried into my dead brother’s room behind my back.” His tone is unforgiving. “What were you meaning to do?”

  “I didn’t ‘pry’!” I say in horror, even though a small voice is whispering, Yes, I did pry. “Seb,” I begin again, trying to reconnect, “I know you’re sensitive, I know this has been awful for you, but I’m sure James would—”

  “You have no idea!” he cuts me off furiously, then pauses, regaining control. “You have no idea about James. None.”

  His gaze is so hostile, it brings tears to my eyes. I’ve had a hell of a day, and I came here for comfort and instead I’ve messed up. I shouldn’t have invaded Seb’s privacy. I shouldn’t have blurted it out. But can’t he forgive me?

  “It seems like neither of us can say anything without hurting the other,” I say, my voice trembling. “Maybe I should go.”

  I’m so desperately hoping that Seb’s face will change, that he’ll sweep me into his arms and we can say sorry to each other six hundred times and make it better in bed.

  But he doesn’t. He’s silent for a few moments, then says, “If you think so.”

  So I gather my things with shaking hands, my breaths coming short and shallow. And I go.

  I travel home in a daze, sitting on the tube, staring at my distorted reflection. I can’t quite comprehend what just happened, how we went so far and so badly so quickly. And it’s only when I get home, to my own bedroom, that I bury my face in my pillow and start to sob.

  Twenty-three

  I wake up with a splitting headache and only one thought: Seb. I must contact Seb. The entirety of last night is in my head, as clearly as though it happened five minutes ago. I still can’t believe how we veered off track. I have to talk to him, apologize; we have to make this right.

  It was only a spat, I tell myself. All couples have spats. We were both tired and stressed and said stuff we didn’t mean. We can fix this.

  I grab my phone and send a text to him:

  Are we OK?

  Then I flop back on my pillow and stare at the ceiling, trying to self-heal my headache. I’ve seen a book in Nicole’s room called Meditate Your Way to Health, but what are you supposed to do when your head hurts too much to meditate?

  I try to focus on a beach, but the only beach I can visualize is dry and scorching and kind of dystopian-looking, with blinding white sand and harsh cliffs and a vulture trying to peck bits out of my eyes while it screeches in my ear. So in the end I get up, wrap my robe around myself, and stagger down the stairs to find some aspirin. I’ll follow the Drug Your Way to Health regime, I decide. Just for this morning. And I’m on the bottom step when a new text pings into my phone, making my heart lurch with nerves. It’s from Seb.

  I don’t know, are we?

  I gaze at it, my temples throbbing. I don’t know how to reply. If I say yes, do I sound too complacent? Obviously I’m not going to say no. What I really want to say is, I don’t know, are we? but that sounds like I’m copying him.

  The main thing, I tell myself, is that he replied. Within two minutes. So he’s thinking about me too. And maybe the best thing is not to text again yet but to call him later, only I must have an aspirin first …

  I push open the door of the kitchen and nearly die of shock. Ryan is sitting at the kitchen table, scooping cereal into his mouth.

  “What are you doing here?” I clutch the doorframe.

  “Morning.” He shoots me a dazzling smile, but I don’t return it.

  “What are you doing here?” I try again. “What— How—” I feel like I might be going mad. Is Ryan part of my dystopian fantasy? Have I conjured him up to torture myself?

  “Jake gave me a key, said I could stay over in his old room.” Ryan winks suggestively. “He told me you wouldn’t be here; otherwise, I would have come visiting.”

  “You’re vile.” I glare at him. “I want you out.”

  “Give me a chance!” says Ryan, gesturing at his breakfast. “I haven’t finished! Although these cornflakes are pretty gross,” he adds, wrinkling his nose.

  “They’re Nicole’s,” I say. “They’re spelt flakes.”

  “You moron,” I want to add. “Can’t you read the packet?” But that would be engaging with him, when what I want is not to engage with him, ever again.

  “Spelt,” he says thoughtfully, finishing his last mouthful. “Huh. Figures.”

  “Go,” I say sternly. “Now.”

  “So, how have you been?” He leans back in his chair, running his eyes over me in a way that would have had me melting on the floor once upon a time. “I’ve been hoping you might call me.”

  He’s been hoping I might call him? I open my mouth, about six furious responses on my lips, then stop myself. Do not engage, Fixie. It’s what he wants.

  “Go,” I repeat. “Just go.”

  “I’m going!” He lifts his hands, looking amused. “Make me a coffee first, though.”

  Make him coffee? Is he for real?

  “Go! Leave! Vamoose!”

  “Oh, I took some chewing gum out of your bag,” he adds, pointing to where my tote bag is hanging on a chair. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Go!” I say, and now I really am feeling enraged. I look around wildly, see the broom propped up against the wall, and pick it up. “Go! Out!” I start prodding it at him, trying to make him stand up. “Out!”

  “Fixie, you’re hilarious,” says Ryan, finally standing up. “I’ll see you soon, babe.”

  Babe? That’s the final straw.

  Lifting up the broom like a jousting pole, I charge fiercely at him with a kind of war cry, and he gives a jump of surprise, then half-walks, half-runs, as I prod him bodily down the hall
.

  “Go!” I’m shouting. “Leave and never come back! You are not allowed in this house!”

  “Looking good, Fixie,” he says, as I shove him out of the door. “I’ll call you.”

  “Please don’t! Ever!”

  I slam the door shut. Then I lean against it, panting slightly and even starting to laugh as I remember his expression when I charged at him. He was actually a bit freaked out.

  At last I head back into the kitchen, take my aspirin, and sit for a bit, letting all the events of yesterday swirl round my brain. Leila, weeping into her manicure set. Uncle Ned, spluttering at me in rage. Morag, I suddenly think. Oh God. I need to sort out Morag. And Jake … and is Mum OK?

  I’m still sitting there, in a bit of a trance, when the door opens and Jake strides in. I gape at him, feeling I must be in a dream. First Ryan, then Jake? He’s dressed as smartly as ever, in a well-cut suit and tie, but his face is shocking. He looks drawn and pale and there’s an angry jut about his chin, as though he wants to smash the whole world.

  “Where’s Ryan?” he says.

  “Gone.” I’m not going to admit I threw Ryan out, because Jake looks like he wants to lay into someone and he might take it out on me. “So, if you wanted to see him—”

  “I don’t,” he cuts me off. He paces over to the window and I watch in silence. His whole body is twitchy, I notice. He pushes a trembling hand through his hair, then turns to face me and just looks at me, and I know what he means. He means: “You know.”

  “I saw Leila last night,” I say, to get it out in the open.

  He nods briefly. “She told me.”

  “Jake—”

  “It’s all fucking bollocks. It’s all—” He breaks off, breathing hard. It makes me remember him kicking the can around the street when he was a teenager, railing at everything.

  “Jake …” I close my eyes briefly, trying to marshal my thoughts and get rid of my remaining headache. “How much trouble are you in?”

  For a while Jake doesn’t answer. He pours himself a glass of water and drains it, his head tilted back. I watch him, mesmerized by his Adam’s apple moving up and down, wondering what on earth he’s going to say next.

  “You don’t need to know,” he says finally.

  “Maybe I do! Jake, maybe this is the whole problem, that you’re not sharing this stuff!” My words tumble out in my eagerness to help. “We’re your family. We’re here for you. Whatever it takes, we’ll help you. Maybe go to see a debt expert, maybe get counseling—”

  “I don’t need counseling,” he lashes back, and I bite my lip. “I need money.”

  “You look knackered,” I say, with a wince. “You look like what you need most is sleep.”

  “Sleep!” He gives a short angry laugh, and I see a vein throbbing at his temple again. Everything I say is making him cross, but I can’t stop.

  “Why don’t you go and have a nap?” I venture. “And I’ll make some soup. And then we’ll sit down and make a plan.”

  Just for a split second I think he might agree. There’s a flash of some deep-down emotion in his eyes and I feel as though I’ve got somewhere. But almost at once it’s gone. His guard is back up and he’s striding around the room again.

  “I don’t need soup, or a plan, or any bullshit like that. I need cash.” He turns to me again, his face alive and urgent. “So here’s what you do. You go and see your rich boyfriend and you find me some money. Or a new business contact. Something.”

  “What?” I’m so shocked, I actually laugh. “I can’t do that!”

  “I need it.”

  “Jake, I can’t.”

  “I need it,” he repeats harshly. “If I can’t get some money soon, I’ll have to go to the guys who break your legs.”

  I feel a stab of terror, and the ravens start to bat their wings as hard as they ever have, but I force myself not to cave in. Tough love. That’s what Seb advised. Block him out.

  “There has to be another way.”

  “I’ve tried every way!” he erupts. “You know what every businessperson needs, Fixie? A bit of luck. One little nugget of luck. Well, you’re going out with this guy Seb, and that’s my nugget of luck.”

  “Seb and I had a row last night,” I contradict him. “I’m not even sure if we’re going out.”

  “He owes you, though, doesn’t he?” Jake comes back instantly. “You saved his life or whatever? Leila told me the whole thing,” he adds, and I curse myself for blabbing about Seb last night, while Leila was finishing off my topcoat.

  “He’s not rich,” I say. “He’s not. He manages money, that’s all. He’s not some flash guy; he’s not like all your millionaire friends.”

  “He has access to money,” says Jake. “He knows people. And I’m desperate.” He comes over and brings his face close to mine. “Family first, Fixie. Do this for me. Or do you want to break up the family?”

  “What do you mean, break up the family?” I say in horror.

  “If you don’t do this for me, that’s it,” he says nastily. “The family’s broken. What, you’re going to watch your own brother sink? You think we can play happy family after that?”

  He swings away and I breathe out, my head spinning, close to tears. I know what Seb said: tough love. But I’m not tough enough. I can’t block out Jake’s energy, his aggression.

  I have a sudden memory of Mum’s voice: “Just don’t lose the shop, Fixie. Or let the family break up.” And I promised her. I pointed at the gateleg oak table in the dining room and said, “When you get back, we’ll be sitting around that very table to celebrate. The shop will be in great shape. And we’ll be a happy family.”

  A wave of despair crashes over me. I’ve failed on every front. Morag’s threatening to leave. Profits are shaky. And now Jake’s going to break up the family. He’ll turn Nicole against me. Mum will come back to split-up, warring factions and she’ll be devastated.

  I can’t be tough. Not that tough. I can’t.

  And, anyway, what’s Jake actually asking for? He only wants me to request some help from Seb. It’s not such a huge deal.

  “Fine,” I mutter at last.

  “What, you’ll do it?” Jake’s face lights up.

  In answer, I reach for my phone and compose a text to Seb:

  Can I come to see you? Lunchtime?

  I send it and almost at once get a response:

  Of course!

  “OK, it’s on,” I say, putting my phone down. “I’m seeing him at lunch.”

  “Yes!” says Jake, giving an energetic fist pump. “Fixie, you’re a star.”

  “I can’t promise anything,” I say, wanting to make this clear. “I can’t promise anything. All I can do is ask him for help.”

  “Oh, he’ll help you,” says Jake, and all his confident swagger seems to have returned. “He’ll help you, Fixie.”

  —

  As I walk to work, I keep looking at Seb’s text on my phone and trying to analyze it. It’s only two words—Of course!—but I think I can tell a lot from them. He sounds keen. He put an exclamation mark, which he didn’t have to. He doesn’t sound angry. Or … does he?

  I try to picture him saying, “Of course!” with a furious scowl, but it doesn’t work. I think he wants to see me. I hope he does. And of course we’ll have to talk about last night, and I’ll apologize for looking in his brother’s room and it might be a bit prickly … but we’ll be OK.

  Won’t we?

  At last I shove my phone away. I can’t speculate anymore; it’s doing my head in. I enter the shop and at once see Morag at the other end. She’s lecturing Stacey about something—I can’t hear what exactly, but Morag’s pointing to a display—and I feel a sudden wave of love for her. She’s planning to leave, but she’s still taking the time to do that? She still cares about Farrs; I know she does.

 
A bleep comes from my pocket and I yank out my phone again, thinking, Seb? But it’s a text from Mum:

  Sorry I missed you, Fixie, feeling a lot better today. Hope all OK. Love, Mum xxx

  I glance up at Morag, who is now gesturing at a saucepan, then read Mum’s words again: Hope all OK.

  I hope so too. I really do.

  When Morag’s finished, I wave to get her attention, and as she approaches, I say, “Morag, could we have a chat?”

  I usher her into the back room, my head a mishmash of thoughts. I don’t know what I’m going to say or where I’m going to start. But I know that I have to reach out to Morag, urgently. I have to turn things around.

  “Morag …” I begin, once we’re both sitting down with the door closed and cups of tea. “Everything’s been a bit of a mess since Mum went off to Spain.”

  “Yes, love,” says Morag, in her sensible, unvarnished way. “It has.”

  “But I’m going to change that. We’re going to cancel all the yoga, we’re going to make Cake Club a priority, we’re going to restock the shop.…”

  “Good,” says Morag. “Because it needs it.”

  “I want to look at our online business again. And we need a really big push before Christmas. We need to turn things around. We can turn things around.”

  “Yes,” says Morag. “I think you can.”

  You. Not we.

  Has she mentally left already?

  There’s a pause and I sip my tea, not quite knowing what I’m going to say next. Morag is so sensible, I think, as I stare at her practical hands with their transparent nail polish. She knows the customers. She knows buying. She knows pricing. She’s the one who should have been sitting round the table all this time, making decisions with me. Not Nicole. Not Jake. Not Uncle Ned.

  “Morag, if we can persuade you to stay with us,” I hear myself saying, “I’d like you to be a director.”

  The words are out before I’ve even stopped to consider them. But the minute I’ve uttered them, I know they’re right. Morag makes this place what it is. She should have ownership.