“A director?” Morag peers at me, startled.
“We haven’t valued you nearly enough,” I say. “And I’m sorry. Morag, please stay.”
“So this is a bribe,” she says at once.
“It’s not.” I shake my head vigorously. “At least, it’s not meant that way. It’s recognition. Of everything that you do.”
“A director,” says Morag slowly, as though getting used to the idea. Then she looks at me suspiciously. “Is your mum in agreement with this? Your mum’s big on family. I’m not family.”
Family first runs through my mind. Family bloody first. I’m not saying Dad was wrong, I’ll never say that, but maybe I’m starting to see “family” differently. It’s not just the people you share genes with; it’s the people you share loyalty and friendship and respect with. It’s the people you love.
“You’re part of the Farrs family,” I say. “And that’s what counts.”
“Fixie, you didn’t answer the question,” says Morag sharply, and I think, That’s why we need her: She doesn’t miss a trick. “Does your mum even know you’re offering me this?”
“I haven’t asked Mum, but I don’t need to.” I look at Morag resolutely. “I know she’ll agree.”
I’ve never felt so positive in my life. I know this is the right thing. Mum charged me with keeping this shop safe, and that’s what I’m doing.
“Well, I’ll think about it,” says Morag, finishing her tea. “I’d better get back to the shop floor.”
And she’s so calm, so unruffled, so impressive, that I cross my fingers all the way back to the cash desk and think, Please stay, please stay, please stay.
I think she will.
—
For some reason we get a group of Japanese tourists in that morning, looking for Union Jack memorabilia. Morag, Stacey, and I sell twelve mugs, sixteen cushion covers, and a calendar to them, while Greg attempts to “speak Japanese” in phrases he’s picked up off manga cartoons. Although none of the Japanese people seem to understand a word.
“What were you saying?” I demand, as soon as they’ve all left.
“Not sure,” he admits. “Kill, probably.”
“Kill?” I stare at him. “You were saying kill in Japanese?”
“It might not have been,” he says after a moment’s thought. “It might have been decapitate.”
“Decapitate?” I echo in horror. “You greeted a group of customers with the word decapitate?”
“They didn’t understand,” Stacey chimes in. “They just thought he was an idiot. How’s your boyfriend, Fixie?” she adds seamlessly, blinking at me.
“Oh,” I say, taken off-balance. “He’s … Um. Yes.”
Trust Stacey to catch me off guard. Avoiding her curious eyes—Greg looks pretty interested too—I glance at my watch.
“All good,” I add briskly. “In fact, I have to go. And, new rule,” I add over my shoulder as I head off to get my coat. “Anyone who says decapitate to a customer gets fired.”
“Well, that’s unfair,” I can hear Greg grumbling behind my back. “What if it comes up in normal conversation?”
“Normal conversation?” says Stacey mockingly. “What kind of sicko are you, Greg? I’ve never even said the word decapitate.”
“You just did!” points out Greg triumphantly. “Just did!” And I can’t help biting my lip, trying not to smile. They might be a bit dysfunctional … but I do love our staff.
Seb and I haven’t actually fixed up a time to meet, so as I leave the shop, I text him:
On way to you now. Is that OK?
Almost immediately he fires back a reply:
Fine.
I compose another text—Great, see you soon—and am hesitating over whether to add a kiss when another text pings into my phone. It’s from Seb again, and as I read it, I feel a bolt of shock.
Why do you want to meet?
I’m so disconcerted, I stop dead on the pavement. Why do I want to meet?
Why?
For a few moments I don’t know how to reply. What does that even mean? Isn’t it obvious why I want to meet? Pitching Jake’s request is the last of my priorities. I want to see Seb. I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to say how sorry I am that I crossed the boundary of his brother’s room. I want to tell him that I’ve tried to take his advice, I’ve tried to be tough with Jake, but sometimes I just don’t feel strong enough.
I want him. That’s all. I want him.
I walk forward, trying to get my head straight, trying to work out what to say, and as I do, I feel more and more upset. Why do you want to meet? That’s not a friendly question. That’s not a kissing-and-making-up question. Does he not want to kiss and make up?
As the thought hits me, I feel suddenly empty and scared and a bit stupid. Have I read this all wrong? Have I assumed …
Oh God. Does he see everything differently from me?
Are we over?
The thought sends unbearable pain ricocheting around me. Over. We can’t be over. I need him. I close my eyes, trying to breathe steadily, willing it not be true. It can’t be. It can’t be what he wants. But why else would he send such a formal, distancing text?
I read the words yet again—Why do you want to meet?—and they’re plain hurtful. Where’s the intimacy? Where’s the affection? What are we, business associates?
My head is throbbing and I think I might start crying if I let myself. But I’m not going to. I’m Ninja Fixie. I’m tough. If he wants to be businesslike, I can be businesslike.
I type a new text, my thumbs jabbing the keys so hard I keep misfiring, but I don’t care, I have to let out some of my hurt.
There’s a business thing I wanted to ask you about.
I send the text, then wait breathlessly. Two can send hurtful messages. Two can play at being distant and formal. A moment later my phone pings:
Fine.
I stare at the single word, feeling a fresh stabbing in my heart. Why is he like this? Why has he given up on us? We had a row last night. A row. Couples have rows. Is he really going to throw it all away because I made one stupid mistake?
As I scroll backward and forward on my phone, reading all the texts we’ve exchanged today, I just don’t get it. He sounded OK this morning. Not exactly ebullient, but not cold either. He sounded like he wanted to see me.
Now, however, he sounds cold and detached and not the Seb I know. Let alone the Seb I’m in love with. What’s happened? Why?
But I can’t answer any of these questions standing here, motionless. So at last I force myself onward, my feet feeling heavy. I was so looking forward to seeing him. But now I’m dreading it.
—
I arrive at the building and Seb greets me himself at the lift and I instantly know: It’s worse than I expected.
“So,” he says. “Hi.” He extends a hand, but he doesn’t kiss me. His face is taut. His eyes are dark and ominous and keep looking past me. I shake his hand, feeling a bit surreal.
“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“No problem.”
He ushers me into his office as though I’m a stranger, asking politely if I’d like a coffee. All the time, his body language is wretched: stiff and tense, keeping his distance, swiveling away from me at every chance. And I keep thinking, Is this is a joke? Are we really acting like this? But it doesn’t seem to be a joke.
As I’m waiting for him to return with my coffee, I look around his office. It’s so much more characterful than his flat. So much more homey, with all the books and photos and the colorful rug.
This is his home, I suddenly realize. So his flat is … what?
Limbo. The word comes to me, unbidden. His flat is limbo. Empty and unloved and kind of waiting. And suddenly I’m desperate to talk to him about this. But how can I when we’re as stiff as two cat
s preparing to fight?
He comes back in with two mugs, and I look up, hoping that maybe now things will relax—but if anything he looks less friendly than before.
“What can I do for you?” he says, sitting down, and I feel a surge of fresh hurt. Fine. If he wants to play it like that, then fine.
“I’m here for a favor,” I say shortly. “Not for me, for someone else. For—”
“Yes, I can guess,” he cuts me off.
He sounds so hostile, I flinch. He looks as though he’s bubbling with outrage. Hatred even. And, OK, I know he told me to be tough with Jake. I know I’m doing the opposite of what he advised, coming here for a bailout. But does he have to be so sanctimonious?
“I don’t expect you to understand,” I say.
“No. Frankly, I don’t.”
“Well, I guess I’m just not as strong as you thought,” I snap miserably. “Sorry.”
“Oh, you don’t have to apologize.” His eyes are so hard and unforgiving, I wince. “Your life. Do what you want.”
Do what I want? How can he be like this?
“Seb …” I stare at him, tears hot behind my eyes. “Look. I know you’re angry. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. But let me tell you why I’m here.”
“Really?” he shoots back, so viciously that I inhale in shock. “I have a better idea, Fixie. Let’s not talk about it. What do you want? Money?”
I stare at him, stung. Money? And I’m about to retort, “Don’t be silly, all I want is a bit of advice for Jake or maybe a contact, or even just a hug would do.…” when something in me snaps. If we don’t love each other, then why am I even hesitating?
“Well, you do owe me,” I retort, slapping the words down between us. And instantly Seb’s face goes blank and kind of scary-looking.
For a few moments neither of us speaks. The air feels hazy with tension. I feel like I’m in a bad dream and I need to wake up. I need to start again. Say different things. Make things go another way.
But I can’t. This is life.
“Yes. I owe you,” Seb says at last, his voice sounding like it belongs to someone else. “How much? Wait, I’ll find a checkbook.”
He gets up without looking at me, heads to a filing cabinet, and roots round in a low drawer. I watch him, motionless, faint with misery. I’ve achieved what I came here to do. So why do I feel so hollow?
Why am I here, anyway? What am I doing?
Trying to keep a grip on things, I remind myself of the facts. Jake. Debt. Family.
Except, sitting here, the facts seem to be taking a different path in my head. I’m thinking this all through in a way I haven’t before. Suppose Seb gives Jake a lump of cash. What then? What have I achieved? He’ll only spend it on a load of expensive lunches and tell us lots of bullshit about “deals” and we’ll be back to square one.
As Seb opens and shuts drawers, I’m light-headed with confusion. I feel like everything is out of my grasp. I can’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to come here. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have anything. Except the knowledge that I’ve destroyed any hopes of being with Seb.
I feel a dart of anguish, so painful that I drop my head into my hands. Random thoughts are running through my head, in such a bewildering stream that I can’t keep track. Family first. Tough love. Block them out. That’s what Seb said: Block them out. But how can I block out Jake? He said he’d break up the family. He looked like he meant it. And I love my family, I love them, despite everything.…
And then it comes to me in a kind of flash.
Love. It’s all about love.
Love isn’t blocking people out; it’s the opposite. If you love someone, you engage with them. You don’t block them out; you talk to them.
When did I last properly talk to Jake? When did Mum? He doesn’t let us in. He bats us away with his smart cars and drawling accent, with his lies and threats. But who is he underneath?
My head feels like it’s exploding. Everything is becoming clear. I don’t need to love Jake less; I need to love him more. We all do. Me. Mum. Leila. He needs the kind of tough, unconditional love that means we actually, properly, help him sort himself out.
Tough love. The toughest love. The lovingest love there is.
“OK.” I hear Seb’s voice and I lift my head to see him sitting back at his desk. “What do I owe you?”
A shaft of light from the window is catching his eyes, turning them a shiny green-brown again. I look at his face and find myself thinking, I love you. But what good is that now?
“Nothing.” I gather up my bag. “Actually, I don’t need any money, after all. Or any help. Thank you. Sorry to bother you.”
“That’s quite the volte-face,” says Seb expressionlessly.
“Yes, well. I’ve realized something. And, actually, it was you who helped me realize it.” My voice wavers slightly, and I clear my throat. “So … thanks.”
“Oh yes?” says Seb with stony indifference.
“Yes. You did.” His expression could not be less encouraging, but I force myself to press on. “When you talked about tough love. You helped me realize that if you really love someone, you don’t just shove cash at them. You help them become the person they’re meant to be. And that’s what unconditional love is.”
I gaze at him, desperate for some reaction, some warmth, something …
“Unconditional love,” Seb echoes at last, in an odd voice. His eyes look kind of scorched, as though I’ve dealt him some blow. “Well, I’m glad if you’ve worked that all out for yourself. But I have a busy day. So.” He pushes his chair back, as though to wrap up things.
I stare at him, feeling winded. That’s it? That’s his reaction?
“Why aren’t you more pleased?” My words tumble out before I can stop them, and to my horror, two tears spill over onto my cheeks. “I listened to you! I took your advice!”
“I am pleased,” he says. “I’m super-pleased. Good luck with your project. Goodbye,” he adds, standing up, and with trembling legs I rise too.
“Goodbye,” I echo him with miserable sarcasm. “Nice knowing you.”
I stalk out, my head in a daze, my eyes filling with fresh tears. As I do so, I think I catch sight of the IOU coffee sleeve resting on a shelf—and something seems to tug at my mind.
But I’m in too much turmoil to dwell on it or think about anything beyond the fact that Seb looked at me like I was a stranger. And everything’s worse than before. And I just don’t get it.
Twenty-four
I get back to the shop to find Jake waiting outside, looking tense and coiled, like a snake about to strike.
“So?” he says, walking to meet me. “So? So?”
I draw breath, trying to overcome my nerves, trying to ignore the ravens. Unconditional love, I remind myself. I can do this. If I talk honestly and from the heart, maybe I’ll get through to him.
“I didn’t get you any money,” I say.
“Great.” Jake swings away, looking murderous. “Just fucking … great.”
“I didn’t get you any,” I continue, my voice shaking desperately, “because you shouldn’t be borrowing any more. You’re only going to get into more and more trouble. Jake, couldn’t you make some changes to your life?” I follow him to where he’s leaning against the shop front and look earnestly into his face, trying to meet his eye. “Couldn’t you stop taking people out for flash lunches? Stop chasing gazillion-pound deals that aren’t going to happen? Do some solid work. Guaranteed work. Wouldn’t that make you happier—”
I break off, gazing up at him with a hope which instantly crumbles. If I was hoping to get through to him, I was an idiot. He doesn’t look transformed. He doesn’t exclaim, “My God, but you’re right.” He doesn’t give me a heartfelt hug and say, “Thanks. I see it all so clearly now.”
“Fuck you, Fixie,” he snarls, and
stomps off down the street. My heart is beating like a rabbit’s, and the ravens are batting round my head, and part of me wants to run after him, apologize, even grovel. But the other part knows better. I have to hold firm. This is just stage one.
I wait till he’s disappeared round the corner, then pull out my phone and compose a text.
Hi, Leila. Can we talk? Fixie xxx
I send it, then breathe out long and hard, shaking his voice out of my ears. That’s all I can do for now. I have other things to think about.
I spend the rest of the day working on plans for Farrs. Plans we can action now. By the end of the day I’ve made an itemized list of Christmas promotions, price cuts, events, and sales. I’ve ordered more stock. I’ve replanned the front of store. I haven’t deferred once to Jake, Nicole, or Uncle Ned. I’ve made decisions all alone, mentally channeling Mum and occasionally consulting with Morag. No one else. I’m in charge of this. Me, Fixie.
I get home exhausted and find Nicole lolling against the kitchen doorframe, lost in her phone as she always is.
“Oh, hi, Fixie,” she says, glancing up. “God, Jake was mad with you last night.”
“I know,” I say shortly. “And I wasn’t too impressed by him. So we’re quits.”
I wait for her to say something else about last night, but her brow is furrowed as she peers at her screen.
“I’m so stressed,” she sighs gustily. “I’m so, like … All my hormones are shot. I need to see someone.”
“Why are you stressed?” I say out of politeness.
“It’s Drew. He’s booked me a ticket, for the twenty-third. He’s, like, ‘You have to come to Abu Dhabi.’ ” She blinks at me. “He just, like, paid for it.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s so passive-aggressive!” She opens her eyes wide. “It’s so controlling! He knows I’m stressed out, but he just does that! It’s like …” She trails off in her usual way, and I feel a shaft of impatience.
“I thought you were stressed out because you were missing your husband,” I point out. “He’s bought you a plane ticket to see him, so surely now you should be less stressed out?”
I Owe You One: A Novel Page 31