I Owe You One: A Novel

by Sophie Kinsella

  “I guess they are, Fixie,” he says, and I can hear the happiness in his voice too. “I guess they are.”

  Ten

  I’ve been to 6 Folds Place a few times with Jake, and it’s really, really expensive. Even the doormen look expensive, all chiseled and handsome and dressed in dark-gray polo necks with intimidating expressions that seem to say, “Are you sure you belong here, because you don’t look like it to us, now fuck off home.”

  I mean, they have a point. I don’t belong here. My £19.99 shoes certainly don’t belong here. But this place is Jake’s spiritual home and he’s invited me, so the doormen are stuck with me. (And my shoes.)

  I know Jake and Leila are inside already, but I haven’t gone in yet. I’m standing on the pavement, texting Ryan, blissfully lost in our stream of messages.

  Everything’s going so wonderfully, I can’t quite believe it.

  I hadn’t heard anything from him all afternoon, so I texted him a few minutes ago: Hope interview went well! A moment or two later he replied:

  Great!

  So I texted him again: Fantastic! You’ll be boss before you know it!

  And I was going to leave it there. But then I thought, maybe it’s easier to address the situation by text than face-to-face? Maybe I should say the things I want to say? So I plucked up all my courage and typed:

  What now?

  In case he didn’t understand what I meant, I sent a quick follow-up:

  Where are you going to live now that you have a job? Because the offer’s open to come to mine.

  I sent it, then worried that I was being too pushy. So I sent a quick additional text:

  Only if you want to.

  There was silence for a while. I stared at the screen breathlessly, my heart thudding, my fingers clenching the phone, waiting … waiting …

  And then it happened! The miracle! He replied:

  Totally. Awesome. Let’s make it happen. Soon!

  That’s what he actually wrote. I’ve read it about twenty times, to make sure. He wants to move in with me. Ryan Chalker wants to move in with me!

  I mean, in some ways it’s no surprise. I’ve felt like we’re on a more stable footing ever since he said he wished I’d come back to L.A. with him. Even so, I hadn’t realized quite how tense I was, how fearful that I was misreading everything. But the evidence is here in my phone. In black-and-white. He wants to commit. He wants to take things to the next level. He wants everything I want!

  I should go into the club—I’m already late—but I can’t bear to break off our correspondence, even though I know he’s on the way here. My fingers are moving speedily over the keys as I pour my heart out:

  Ryan, this is the beginning of something amazing. A whole new life. You and me. I’ll stand by you as you forge your new career. I’ll help you any way I can. You can bring all your stuff over any time and we’ll celebrate properly!!

  I send the text, then I can’t resist adding a P.S.:

  I’m so happy!!!!

  Finally I compose another text, with no words but lots of emojis of champagne glasses clinking and little houses and love hearts.

  I love emojis. They just, like, say it.

  At last I put my phone away and head toward the entrance, beaming at the most intimidating doorman. No one can cast me down. No one can puncture my bubble of joy. Ryan wants to move in with me! He wants intimacy. He wants stability. He wants it soon. He actually typed that word: Soon!

  As I enter the bar, I breathe a contented sigh and wave at Leila, who is looking ravishing in a silk cream dress and Louis Vuitton logo pumps. I’m in the same old black dress I always wear, but I’ve cracked open the satin knickers I got in my stocking at Christmas. So that’s something.

  I head over to where she’s sitting with Jake, marveling anew at how amazing this place is. The carpet has a luxury softness. The chairs are heavy and stylish and sleek. The lighting glows and sparkles all around the place. The bar is made of copper. And the drinks are about fifteen quid each. Which slightly makes me want to faint—fifteen quid for one glassful of something?—except that Jake’s already said he’s paying tonight. I mean, fair enough. It’s his choice to come here. But I’d be as happy with a bottle of pinot grigio at home. (And I think Leila would too.)

  As I kiss them both, I see there’s a bottle of champagne on the table already, and Jake pours me a glass. We clink glasses, then Jake and Leila resume their conversation about some sofa that Jake saw in the Conran Shop.

  “I’m ordering it,” he says. “That leather is like butter. You can go and look at it if you like, but I’m ordering it.”

  “We could look online for a more reasonable one,” Leila ventures, but Jake scowls.

  “I’m not buying some knockoff. We’re having the real thing.”

  I’ve never even been into the Conran Shop, so I can’t comment. Instead, I lean back and soak up the atmosphere. Music is pulsing through the air—and even that sounds bespoke and special, as if there’s some band that only plays for millionaires in private members’ clubs. Everything here is designed to make you feel relaxed and happy.

  I’d be relaxed and happy wherever I was, to be honest. I’m more than happy—I’m euphoric. I can’t stop looking down at the string of messages on my phone. Ryan wants to live with me, Ryan wants to live with me …

  And then, suddenly, there he is, threading his way between the tables. I try to stay cool, but my heart has seized up. Every single woman in the place is turning to look at the blond guy with the easy stride and the tan and the Hollywood teeth, and he’s walking toward me.

  Plus he’s holding flowers. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine flowers.

  He hands me the bouquet—stylish lilies in green waxed paper—says, “Fixie, you’re a star,” and kisses me.

  “You’re the star,” I say, lifting a careless hand to cradle his head and murmur something soft in his ear, like intimate lovers do, although it doesn’t quite work because he’s already moving away to greet the others.

  “Ryan!” Leila squeaks. “Yay!”

  “Well done, mate.” Jake high-fives Ryan, then glances disparagingly at the champagne bottle already open. “I think we need something a bit special to celebrate this.” He clicks his fingers to summon a waiter, which makes me wince, because why would you do that? It’s so rude. But clicking fingers is very Jake.

  “A bottle of Cristal,” he says grandly, and I tell myself not even to glance down at how much it costs, because I really will have a seizure.

  “Remember when we were in the sixth form?” Jake says to Ryan. “The day we finished our exams and you blew two hundred quid on a bottle of Krug and we drank it in your garden? Well, here’s my thank-you.”

  I remember that day too, although I don’t mention it. Jake had promised me he’d tell me where they were celebrating, so I could go along too, but he never did. Then he got home all red-faced and slurry, and for the rest of the summer he talked about how he’d drunk a two-hundred-quid bottle of Krug. He even used it as a chat-up line. And it actually worked on some girls.

  The waiter pours the Cristal into fresh glasses and we toast Ryan. As I sip, questions silently rack up in my mind, one by one. Does Jake really like posh champagne? Can he actually tell the difference? Can anyone? Doesn’t he see the price of this and feel faint?

  I don’t know anything about Jake’s finances, only that he’s doing “well.” Sometimes I think maybe he’s a millionaire, he’s just never told us.

  “So,” I say softly to Ryan as he sits next to me. “Big day. You were brilliant.”

  “I knew it!” says Leila, patting Ryan on the knee. “I said to Jakey, ‘I know Ryan will get this.’ ”

  “It just shows,” I say eagerly. “You can turn your life around, however hard it seems, if you’re willing to be flexible and humble and put in the hard work.”

 
; “Hard work!” Jake guffaws. “Hear that, Ryan? Hey,” he adds, spotting some well-dressed guy at the bar. “That’s Ed. You should meet Ed,” he adds to Ryan, getting to his feet. “Come and say hello.”

  He doesn’t suggest that Leila or I come to say hello, and to be fair I’m quite happy not to. So I sit, sipping my drink, watching Ryan charm Jake’s friends.

  “Yeah,” I can hear him saying. “I’ve moved from producing into investment; seemed like a good idea. Yeah, follow the money!” He gives an easy laugh, his face glowing, and lifts his glass in a toast.

  I can’t believe the transformation in him. He’s radiant. Ebullient. Confident. If he was like a wounded lion a few days ago, that’s all forgotten. Now he’s the king of the jungle. The golden boy again.

  And I brought it about. Me, Fixie.

  “Yeah, well, they loved me at the interview.…” he’s saying. “And of course I slipped them a tenner.…”

  Jake’s friends laugh, and I smile into my drink. I’m about to suggest to Leila that we go up and join the boys, when my phone buzzes. I get it out of my bag, planning to turn it off—but it’s Mum calling. Mum!

  “Hey, Mum!” I say into my phone. “Hang on a minute, I can’t talk in here.…” As I rise to my feet, I gesture to Leila that I’m popping outside, and she nods easily.

  I haven’t spoken to Mum once since she left. She texted when she arrived, to let us know she was safe, but I haven’t actually heard her voice. And as I hurry through the bar to the lobby, I realize I’m longing to talk to her.

  “Mum!” I exclaim, as soon as I can talk. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, Fixie.” Her familiar tones flow into my ear. “It’s lovely! I wish you were here!”

  She says it with no irony at all. She’s never done holidays, Mum. She probably doesn’t even know that that’s the clichéd phrase.

  “Are you having a good time, then?” I say, smiling, wishing I could see her face.

  “It’s so warm!” she exclaims in astonishment, as though she was expecting the south of Spain to be a bit nippy. “We’re right by the beach. I’ve been swimming every day. Good thing I bought that swimsuit. And the food’s lovely—we’re eating lots of seafood, although Karen does always order too much sangria.…”

  As she talks on, I lean against a wall, imagining her plunging into the Mediterranean and soaking up the sun and drinking sangria with her sister. I’m thinking, This is what she should have done years ago.

  “… and how’s the shop going?”

  Mum’s words bring me back to the present with a guilty twinge. I haven’t really been focusing on the shop. I’ve been focusing on Ryan.

  “It’s fine!” I say automatically. “All good!”

  “Ned sent me an email. He said you’re having your first meeting tomorrow?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And everything’s going OK with Jake and Nicole?”

  It crosses my mind to tell her about Nicole’s yoga plans—but no. It would worry her. I’ll sort it myself.

  “Everything’s fine,” I say reassuringly. “Couldn’t be better!”

  We talk for a bit longer, then Mum says she’d better go and I head back to the bar, biting my lip. Now that Ryan’s future is sorted, I need to give some attention to the shop.

  Ryan’s still holding court at the bar and doesn’t notice me at first. I wait until there’s a lull in the conversation and then tap him on the arm.

  “Oh, hi!” he exclaims, turning toward me. “Come and meet these guys.”

  “No, actually, if you don’t mind, I’m going to slip away,” I add apologetically. “It’s the first big family meeting about the shop tomorrow. I want to prepare some stuff.”

  “Oh, OK,” says Ryan, nodding. “Fair enough.”

  “See you later, then.” I squeeze his arm. “Have fun!”

  “Later?” He stares at me blankly. “What do you mean, later?”

  “Well … I thought you’d be coming back to mine?” I say, equally blankly.

  “Fixie.” Ryan exhales with an astonished laugh. “Fixie, Fixie. What are you saying, that we should move in together?”

  For a moment I can’t speak. His words won’t compute in my brain. Is he joking? Of course I think we should move in together. We were just talking about moving in together. But now he’s sounding incredulous.

  As I stare at him dumbly, wondering if I misheard, Ryan sighs and pulls me aside, away from the group.

  “This is great, you and me,” he says gently, pointing from his chest to mine and back again. “It’s lovely. But moving in together would be the worst thing we could do. We need to take things slowly. Step by step.”

  Words are scrambling in my brain. Nothing makes sense.

  “But your text,” I say stupidly.

  “My text?”

  “About the future! Just now! I asked you and you said—” I fumble for my phone so I can read out the words exactly. “You said, Totally. Awesome. Let’s make it happen. Soon!”

  “Well, yeah.” He laughs. “I do want to be boss soon.”

  Boss?

  Boss?

  Oh my God. I’m frozen in utter dismay as realization hits. He was replying to that text?

  “Right, but my other text?” I manage, trying to sound light. “What did you … ? I mean, did you think … ?”

  “What other text?” He looks puzzled. “The last text I got from you was about being the boss. Why, what did you say?”

  He didn’t get my text? All of my blissful happiness is based on a misunderstanding?

  “What did you say?” asks Ryan again, and my stomach lurches in horror. He cannot know what I said.

  “Nothing!” My voice finally bursts out in a desperate squeak. “No. I didn’t say anything. Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

  My head is boiling. I think I want to die.

  “I mean, you do get my point?” says Ryan kindly. “We’ve only been together for, like, five minutes. It would be ridiculous to move in together.”

  “God yes! Ridiculous!” I emit a shrill, fake laugh. “Believe me, moving in together is the last thing I want. The last. Although you did say you wished I’d come back with you to L.A.,” I add, before I can stop myself.

  Ryan looks utterly astonished.

  “Fixie, L.A. is—” He breaks off as though he can’t even find a word for what L.A. is. “Look, Fixie.” He faces me, straight on. “I want to take us seriously. Seriously.”

  “So do I!” I say, feeling totally confused.

  “So we take it little by little, yeah?” He squints at his phone. “Hang on. Some texts are coming in now. Are they the ones you sent before?”

  No. Nooo. They’re arriving now?

  “Don’t read those!” My voice shoots up still higher in panic. “They’re nothing! I was just randomly chatting … It was boring … Actually, why don’t I delete them?”

  My heart thumping, I grab Ryan’s phone out of his hand. Ignoring his startled look, I start frantically pressing DELETE. I’m cringing as I read my own words:

  Where are you going to live now that you have a job? Because …

  Deleted.

  Ryan, this is the beginning of something amazing …

  Deleted.

  A whole new life. You and me.

  Deleted.

  I’m so happy!!!!

  Deleted.

  And all the emojis: Deleted. All gone.

  As I hand Ryan his phone back, I smile as brightly as I can—but inside I’m kind of crushed. I mean, he’s right. Of course he’s right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Long term, it’s more sensible to take things slowly.

  It’s just …

  I mean, you can’t help wishing for things, can you?

  “So, I’ll see you … sometime!” I force myself to sound ligh
t and casual, as if I don’t mind when I see him at all. As if it’s no big deal. As if perhaps we won’t even bother to see each other at all.

  “I’ll text you,” says Ryan. “We’ll get together soon. And thanks for today, babe.”

  He kisses me lightly, and I hesitate, suddenly desperate to stay. But I’ve already said I’m leaving and it would seem uncool to change my mind. I pick up my flowers, and as I walk out of the bar, I decide I will find five positive things about the situation.

  1.He still wants to be with me.

  2.He didn’t see my mortifying texts.

  3.He bought me flowers.

  4.

  5.

  Well, anyway. Three is plenty. Plenty.

  Eleven

  Uncle Ned has booked a table at a restaurant for our meeting. It’s a place called Rules, in Covent Garden, all red plush and dark wood and food like oysters and venison. As I read the menu, I can’t help gasping inwardly at the prices.

  “Wow,” I say. “This is quite … grand. We normally have meetings at the shop and Mum brings sandwiches.”

  “Your mother likes to play things down,” says Uncle Ned kindly. “It’s her little affectation. But what I say is: If you mean business, then mean business.” He lifts his gin and tonic in a toasting gesture.

  “Right,” I say, after a pause, because I don’t want to start the evening off by arguing. But I don’t get it at all. Why have we come to some luxury restaurant just to talk about the shop? My motto would be: If you mean business, then spend your money on the business, not on expensive meals.

  Jake and Nicole seem happy enough, though, ordering pâté and even lobster. When we’ve all ordered, Uncle Ned clears his throat in a grandiose way and says, “Before we begin on this little joint endeavor, please be assured, I am merely here to facilitate. Facilitate, d’you see?” He looks around with slightly bloodshot eyes. “You won’t want to listen to an old buffer like me. That’s understood. I’m simply here to make sure you don’t run the ship aground. Oh, the Chablis, I think,” he adds to the wine waiter, then turns to Jake. “By the way, I take it you have a company credit card on you?”