I’m fairly sure she got that quote off a cushion, but I nod gratefully at her. The thing about all Nicole’s quotes is that some of them are actually pretty good. Especially the wooden sign she gave me yesterday, which reads, YOU’RE STRONGER THAN YOU THINK. I’ve looked at it quite a lot—and it does make me feel stronger.
“Jakey, do you have any money coming in?” Leila says, her hands twisting anxiously. “Any actual money?”
“I have … I have a stack of potential deals,” says Jake, his face evasive. “There’s a guy in Northampton who deals in wine. I have irons in the fire—”
“You don’t have any irons in the fire,” Leila cuts him off sorrowfully. “You don’t.”
A police siren blares in the next street and for a moment no one speaks, and I suddenly find myself thinking of Ryan. Jake’s too much like Ryan. It’s as if he’s still trying to be Ryan. Just like he always has done, since they were teenagers. All big names and swagger. It was Ryan who made living like a millionaire seem normal to Jake. Of course, Jake was always ambitious; he always wanted money. But even so, I wish he’d never met Ryan. That neither of us had.
“My dad’s here to take me home,” says Leila, raising her chin. Her skinny legs are encased in tight jeans and high-heeled boots and her nails are works of iridescent art. She looks so dignified, I want to hug her. “All your stuff’s in the van. Dad says you’re welcome to come and live with us for a bit.”
“You’ve moved out my stuff?” Jake reels, as though under a fresh blow.
“We’re renting the flat out, Jake,” Leila says, as though explaining to someone very stupid. “I had to.”
“All right, love? I’ve had to move the van, bloody traffic wardens.” We all look up as a gruff voice hails Leila. It’s her dad, Tony. I’ve met him a few times; he has a building firm in Northwood. He’s a big, strong guy with callused hands, and he runs his eyes up and down Jake’s smart suit with barely concealed contempt. I’m not sure they’ve ever really got on. “If you’re in trouble, I can give you a job on the site,” he adds to Jake in short tones. “You’re unskilled, so it would be basic pay.”
“Thanks, Dad,” says Leila. Her eyes fix on Jake like lamps, and I can see her message: “Thank my dad.”
“Thanks, Tony,” says Jake, sounding as though the words are choking him.
“Right. Well.” Tony strides away and Leila totters after him.
“Wait, Dad. I’ll come. Give me a sec.” She turns to Jake again on her clippy-cloppy heel, her delicate face full of a strength that makes it even more beautiful than usual. “We’ll be in the van for ten minutes, OK? You can come to ours—or we can deliver your stuff somewhere else. But if you come with me, you’ve got to want to come. You’ve got to want it, Jakey. You and me …” Her voice begins to tremble. “We can be something. It’s not about you buying me stuff or being a hero or how many clubs we go to. It’s about you and me making plans and enjoying life together and … and being us. But you’ve got to want to be us, Jakey.” She points at him and then herself with her slender fingers. “You’ve got to want to be us.”
She finishes and there’s a breathless beat. Then she turns back and hurries toward her dad, who links his arm in hers and together they disappear around the corner, while I resist the urge to shout, “Go, Leila!”
I risk a look at Jake—and feel a pang of shock. He looks ill. He’s sunk onto his haunches and his head is bent and his shoulders are heaving. At last he raises his head, and he’s not crying but he looks close.
“You fucking ganged up on me,” he says, his voice muffled. “You’re family.”
“That’s why we ganged up on you,” I say. “Because we’re family. Because we care about you.”
I used to yearn so hard for the sunshine of Jake’s approval. But now I’m feeling a different kind of glow. Conviction that we’re doing the right thing.
“So, what, you think I should work on a building site?” he says with a miserable glare. “That’s what you think of me?”
“Why shouldn’t you work on a building site?” I say, in sudden fury. “Who do you think you are? Jake, stop trying to be posh. Be proud of where you came from. Leila’s right, you’ve got to want to be who you are. And you’re Jake Farr. Be proud of that.”
For a moment Jake just stares ahead as though he hasn’t heard me.
“Be proud of being Jake Farr,” he says at last, his voice empty. “Proud of what? I have nothing.”
He buries his head in his hands again, looking desolate, and I have a flashback to my own desolation when Farr’s Food went under. The grief I used to feel when I looked at my green aprons under the bed. I felt as though life would never be good again.
But maybe I was lucky, I find myself thinking. We’ve all got to have some kind of failure in life, and I had mine early. I got back on my feet. I learned that failing doesn’t mean you are a failure; it just means you’re a human being.
“You have Leila, who’s awesome,” I say robustly. “You have us. And you have Farrs. Not the ‘Notting Hill Family Deli.’ ” I can’t help adding a little dig. “Farrs.”
Jake doesn’t even move, and I hunker down beside him, trying to think how else to get through to him.
“Dad was so proud of you, Jake,” I say, more gently. “He didn’t care about being smart or having designer suits or making more money than anyone else. D’you remember what he used to say? ‘Do an honest day’s work, sleep an honest night’s sleep.’ ”
“I haven’t slept properly for weeks,” says Jake after a pause. He turns his head and I don’t know if it’s the light, but he looks more haggard than I’ve ever seen him.
“Oh, sleep is vital,” says Nicole at once. “Vital. Like, I haven’t been sleeping well either, and it’s been really bad for me? I have some essential oils I can give you,” she adds.
“There you go,” I say to Jake. “Essential oils. That’ll cure everything.” I’m trying to lighten the mood, and I think his mouth twitches a bit. Just a bit. “Will you be able to pay off your debts now?” I add more seriously.
“Yes,” says Jake, looking away. “Pretty much. Although if I clear them it doesn’t leave me with anything to do business with.” I sense he can’t stand discussing his finances with his little sister but realizes he has no choice.
“So actually you’re not in bad shape.” I shrug. “You only owe Farrs, and you can pay that back, easy.”
“How?” Jake demands, as though I’m playing a trick on him. “How can I do that?”
“Work,” I say simply. “You work it off.”
As I say the words, I suddenly realize a weird thing. My voice is steady. My words are clear. And there aren’t any ravens flapping around my head.
Maybe they’ve flown away.
Twenty-five
Jake’s on Gingerbread Man duty. Ten hours a day, he stands outside Farrs, dressed in a Gingerbread Man suit, calling, “Come on in! Gingerbread houses at Farrs! Christmas decorations at Farrs! Biscuit cutters at Farrs! Ho ho ho!” He has flyers to hand out and samples of gingerbread and special-offer coupons.
He wasn’t supposed to be doing it all day—I originally planned for us to do shifts. But we were trying to sort it out at a staff meeting, and everyone was arguing about what times they wanted, when Jake suddenly said, “OK, enough. I’m Gingerbread Guy. End of.”
We all stared at him and I said, “All day long?” Whereupon he said, deadpan, “Beats hanging around in store with you lot.” And after a moment (when we were sure he was joking), we all laughed.
Now that Jake’s relaxed a bit, now that he’s not chasing millions and just working at Farrs every day, he’s actually quite cheerful. He’s funny. He and Stacey have a good line in banter, and Greg keeps trying to get him to start a Staff Mixed Martial Arts Group, with a membership of two: Jake and Greg. (Bob said no.)
“So you basically want to beat m
e up, Greg,” Jake said at last, and Greg got all bulgy-eyed and said that was a complete misunderstanding of the skills and artistry of MMA, while Jake winked at me.
As for his Gingerbread Man skills, it turns out they’re great! The promotion is working better than I could have dreamed: The gingerbread houses are flying off the shelves, along with all the Christmas baking equipment. Morag—our new director—sat down with me one evening and we completely refreshed our stock. We went out on a limb on a few festive items that we both felt instinctively were right—and they’ve totally outperformed. The mixing bowl decorated with gingerbread men sells out as soon as we put it on the shelves, and the holly-leaf version is nearly as popular. In fact, we’ve had to start waiting lists.
It’s three weeks since Bob’s gloomy assessment, and even he blinked in surprise as he came in last Saturday. The place was buzzing. Jake was calling out, “Get your gingerbread house! Three for two on gift wrap!” Nicole was assisting Morag with a children’s table decoration activity, while their parents all browsed the shop. There was a happy hum of chatter and the tills were bleeping nonstop. We won’t know till January how everything’s shaken down, but it’s looking OK. It’s looking better.
To be fair, Nicole and Jake have both worked their socks off. We’ve run as many late-night shopping events as we can, with different themes and promotions. It’s been pretty exhausting, and we’ve had to reprioritize a bit. The house is a mess, the kitchen is a tip, we haven’t even thought about our own Christmas, and we’re all a bit frazzled … but it’s worth it.
Jake even managed to be polite to the customers last night at our first-ever seniors’ event. He appeared truly delighted to see my lovely shuffly brown-mug customer, whose name turns out to be Stanley. He was also über-charming to Sheila and Sheila’s mother, aged ninety-eight, who told Jake about six times how handsome he was and how she’d always wanted a toyboy.
Morag has never looked happier—she’s got completely free rein now and is making loads of plans for the New Year. I’ve made a few plans of my own too. I’m going to launch cooking lessons for customers, once a month. I’ll call it the Dinner Party Club, to go alongside the Cake Club, and I’m already working on menus. I’ve even wondered if I might get back into a bit of catering, for customers, as a sideline. I mean, why not? Suddenly everything is feeling possible.
Meanwhile, the Farrs Instagram page has changed from pictures of Nicole to photos of customers and cakes and—my idea—Farrs’ items in funny locations around London. There’s a food mixer in a phone box and a chopping board balanced on top of a red pillar box, and Vanessa even posted a picture of a Jell-O mold on her judge’s chair in court.
As I head outside to give Jake a cup of tea, he greets me with “Five days till Christmas! Ho ho ho!” We had a small staff debate about whether ho ho ho was quite right for a gingerbread man, with Greg claiming it was copyright Santa Claus. But I thought ho ho ho sounded festive and jolly. And these days, what I say tends to go. (Then Stacey wanted to join in and found a Gingerbread Girl costume online. Oh my God. Totally inappropriate. Plus she would have got hypothermia standing out there in stockings and suspenders.)
“Here you are, Gingerbread Man,” I say, handing Jake his cup of tea.
“Gingerbread Guy,” Jake corrects me, as he always does, and I roll my eyes at him. I think Gingerbread Guy is un-Christmassy—but if he wants to be Gingerbread Guy in his own head, let him.
“Oh, I’ve got a message from Leila,” he adds. “Everyone’s invited over for drinks on Christmas Eve. Six o’clock; bring a bottle.”
A year ago, Jake would never have hosted a “bring a bottle” party. He would have been all grand and served champagne and boasted about the canapés. He’s a different person these days. Kind of chastened—but also more relaxed, as though he doesn’t need to pretend anymore. His eyes aren’t strained. He laughs more. I think Leila’s dad treats him pretty brusquely, and a few times Jake has said maybe he and Leila should move into our place.
But I think it’s great. I think Leila’s dad is exactly what Jake needs right now.
“Wonderful,” I say. “Tell Leila I’ll be there.”
“She said, if you want to bring anyone …” Jake trails off cautiously and shoots me a questioning look.
“No.” I force myself to smile. “Just me.”
I haven’t confided in Jake about Seb—our relationship hasn’t changed that much. But from his expression I’m pretty sure that Leila has filled him in.
So he’ll know that I was with Seb … and then somehow I wasn’t anymore. He’ll know how devastated I’ve been. What he won’t know is that I’ve replayed our last couple of days over in my mind almost obsessively, and I still can’t work out quite how everything disintegrated.
What happened? One minute Seb and I were happy, the next we were shouting, the next we couldn’t even look each other in the eye. All in a blink. And if I could go back, if I could only go back …
No, I tell myself furiously. Don’t think that. Seb said it himself: “You can’t go back in time and do life a different way.”
I take a piece of gingerbread from Jake’s basket and munch it, trying to get a grip on myself, but it’s not easy. Thinking about Seb and what might have been fills me with such pain I can barely breathe.
Which is why I try not to do it. But I can’t help myself.
He’s back with Briony. Which shouldn’t have shocked me but did. I discovered it from looking on Facebook a couple of weeks ago. She’d posted a picture of the pair of them, smiling at the camera, captioned: Back together after a blip, all good now!!
And my heart kind of caved in on itself.
I was the blip.
I didn’t feel like a blip. I felt like more than a blip. But there it is in black-and-white: blip. And there’s no reason whatsoever for me ever to run into Seb again—London’s a big city—so that’s it. The end. I’ll never quite know why we broke up. Or how you can be the happiest you’ve ever felt with someone and then the saddest.
“Fixie?” Jake’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and I realize my damp eyes are giving me away.
“Right. Yes. Christmas Eve! It’ll be fun!” I say, my voice a little shrill, blinking furiously. “Although I’ve got nowhere with my Christmas shopping; is there anything you want?”
We talk for a bit more, then I head back inside to the familiar colorful buzz of the shop. Morag has just found a new source of picnicware, all printed with daffodils and perfect for summer, and we’re both oohing-and-aahing over the catalog when I hear a loud, hideously familiar voice: “Can I get some service?”
My stomach plummets to the floor. For a moment I can’t even move for horror—then, very slowly, I turn my head, knowing exactly who I’m going to see.
It’s her. Whiny.
She looks spectacular. She’s in a white cable-knit turtleneck with a faux-fur vest over the top and shiny riding boots. Her skin is glowing with fake tan and her black jeans fit her snugly and her hair is all glossy under the lights.
“Oh, hi, I’d forgotten this was your place,” she drawls, her eyes running over me with gratification.
She hadn’t forgotten. I know what this is: It’s payback for the skating.
“Welcome to Farrs,” I say, feeling like a robot. “What can I get for you?”
“Oh, I’m not sure,” she says carelessly. “I’ll just browse all your little things. I haven’t even thought about Christmas yet. Seb’s such a great chef and it’s the first Christmas we’re spending together, just the two of us … so the pressure’s on!” She laughs merrily. “Seb’s so sweet, though; he keeps saying he’ll cook everything. He’s an angel.” Her eyes slide to mine. “As you know.”
As I know. Is she trying to torture me? Well, yes, of course she is.
“Stacey,” I call out, my voice husky because I’m actually finding this really difficult. “Could yo
u … This customer needs …”
But my voice doesn’t rise above the hubbub strongly enough. Stacey’s head doesn’t turn.
“So, I’m finally moving in with him,” Briony says, as though we’re having a cozy girls’ chat over coffee. “About bloody time! I said to him, ‘Seb, we’re a couple! Let’s behave like one!’ And he agreed. He was like, ‘I’ve been a bit mad these last few weeks. I don’t know what got into me.’ And we’re off to Klosters on Boxing Day, so, you know. Back to normal.”
“Right,” I manage. My head is pounding as though I’m about to vomit, but I force my lips into a smile.
“Hi, Lucia!” Briony suddenly waves at a girl I’m sure I’ve seen in here before, with glossy blond hair to match Briony’s and a navy coat. They kiss each other and Lucia brandishes a basket cheerfully at Briony.
“I’m going to go mad,” she says. “I love this place. I come in for cling film and leave with ten bags of stuff. But why did you suggest meeting here?” she adds curiously. “I know about it, but I’m local.”
“Oh, I just heard about it,” says Briony, her eyes sliding again to mine and away again.
“If I can help you with anything, please let me know,” I say, still with my stiff, pleasant smile, then turn away.
And I know I should leave—but I can’t bring myself to. I head to a nearby display, pointlessly rearranging a row of eggcups, my ears straining to hear their conversation.
“You should have brought Seb,” Lucia is saying as she looks at serving dishes. “He’s the real chef, isn’t he? You’re so lucky.”
“Oh, he’s amazing,” agrees Briony smugly. “Makes me breakfast in bed all the time. I’m going to put on twenty pounds!”
She’s speaking far more loudly than she needs to, and, again, I know I should walk away; I need to save myself from this. But my legs just won’t do it.
“Oh well, wait till you’ve got your home gym,” says Lucia easily. “You’ll both be so buff! By the way, I can come round and help clear out that room, after all. The removers are coming at ten tomorrow, aren’t they? Will they bring boxes?”
I Owe You One: A Novel Page 33