For a flustered moment I don’t know how to respond.
“No, they’re not!” I retort at last, trying to sound convinced. “That’s totally … They’re …” I wince as Nicole drops the saucepan with a clatter and exclaims, “Oh, it’s dented now! Greg, get another one.”
“Look at them,” says Stacey, unmoved. “They don’t know anything about Farrs. All I’m saying is … you better watch out.”
—
When I get home that evening, I’m bone-weary. It’s been exhausting trying to wrangle each member of the family in turn. Uncle Ned was “offended to the core” that I’d thought he was trying to purloin goods for free. “Naturally” he’d only meant a 40 percent discount.
So then I had to explain that our discount is 20 percent. Whereupon his mouth curled up and he put back the teapot and the tablecloth.
Greg and Morag finally completed their psychological questionnaires, then vigorously disputed the results. Morag, in particular, was highly offended to be told she was a Goat. It didn’t help that Nicole started her spiel by saying, “The Goat is what we call a negative personality, so you might want to work on your positive qualities, Morag.”
Morag went all pink and huffy, but Nicole didn’t even notice. Meanwhile, Greg had looked all the profiles up online and decided he wanted to be a Lion. But Nicole said he couldn’t be a Lion, he was the opposite of a Lion. So he answered the whole questionnaire again with different answers but he still wasn’t a Lion, he was a Pony. Whereupon he sulked for the rest of the day.
I’m sure all this personality stuff makes sense with a trained, tactful person doing it. But Nicole isn’t trained or tactful. All she’s achieved is to upset people. Only of course I couldn’t say anything negative in public, so I filled one out myself and listened while Nicole explained it to me. I can’t even remember what I was—maybe a Panda? (Stacey refused to do hers. She said, “I know which personality I am already. I’m Stroppy Bitch.”)
Then we tried to look at how Nicole’s yoga class was going to work and nearly had a massive row in public, because she all she kept saying was, “You promised me space, Fixie, you promised me space,” but didn’t seem to have any idea where the space should come from. We compromised in the end by getting rid of the leisure section, reducing the baking section, and halving the glassware, but it’s not ideal.
At least I managed to talk Jake out of booking hardwood-flooring companies to come and quote next week. But I gave in over the “relaunch.” He wants to throw a party and invite “cool people” and “influencers” and “put Farrs on the map.”
I mean, whatever. If he can get some cool people to come along to Farrs, then good luck to him.
I dump my bag and jacket in the hall, head to the kitchen, and stop in delight. Ryan is sitting at the table, drinking a beer, watching the news on our tiny TV, and scrolling down his phone. He looks so at home, I feel a bubble of joy expand inside me. He’s here! I honestly thought—
Well, I didn’t know what to think. He was so casual when we said goodbye the other night, I was afraid he might already be moving on. So somehow, these last two days, I’ve forced myself not to text him constantly but to play it cool. Wait for him to make the next move. And it’s worked!
“Hi!” I say. I’m trying to sound casual, but my voice is giddy with relief. “Didn’t expect you tonight.”
“Nicole let me in,” he says, standing up. “I thought you’d get back earlier.”
“We had a crisis over a damaged delivery,” I say apologetically. “It tied me up.”
“No biggie.” He smiles. “You’re here now.”
He pulls me into his arms and I close my eyes, almost swooning as our mouths meet. I hadn’t realized how desperate I was for him. The touch of him, the scent of him … the himness of him.
It’s been so long since I had a proper boyfriend. Not that I would admit this to him.
“So how it going?” I draw back and survey his face. “How’s the job?”
The only two texts I’ve sent Ryan were wishing him luck with the job and then asking how his first day had gone. He didn’t reply to either, but I figured he was super-busy.
“It’s great!” His face creases into a smile. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Fantastic!” I say in delight. “So you like the work?”
“Love it,” he says emphatically. “And I think I’ll be good at it, you know? I’m not saying I’m an expert, but I get what they’re trying to do. What we’re trying to do,” he corrects himself, a little self-consciously, and I give him another hug. This is all even better than I hoped.
“I’m so happy,” I murmur against his shoulder. “I really hoped it would work out. And is Seb a good boss?”
I ask it more for form’s sake than anything else, and I’m surprised when Ryan stiffens slightly.
“He’s fine,” he says after a pause. “He’s OK.”
“Only OK?” I feel a tad disappointed. I don’t know why, but I assumed Seb would be a brilliant boss.
“No, he’s great,” Ryan backtracks. “He’s fine. All good.” He flashes a smile and I automatically return it—but I’m still preoccupied.
“So, what’s the issue?” I can’t help probing.
“Nothing.” Ryan brushes it off. “I shouldn’t have said anything. He’s great.”
“But … ?” I persist. I know there’s a “but,” and I have to know what it is.
“OK.” Ryan exhales. “Well, I guess there’s a bit of tension.”
“Tension?” I stare at him. “Why would there be tension?”
“It’s tricky.” Ryan hesitates as though marshaling his words. “Thing is, people in the office are coming to me. Asking my opinion. And Seb doesn’t like it.” Ryan winces. “I think he’s threatened.”
“Why would Seb be threatened by you?” I say, astonished. “He set up his own investment company. You don’t know anything about investment. How can you be a threat?”
I have a flashback to Seb in his office. His open manner. His laugh. He doesn’t seem like he would be threatened by anyone. He seems like the type who would be interested in all viewpoints.
“I agree!” Ryan exclaims, nodding vigorously. “I’m a beginner! But here’s the thing: I knew a lot of people in the States. Entrepreneurs, tech companies, environmental outfits … I picked stuff up. And the guys want to hear it. All except Seb. He’s a nice guy but closed-minded. He likes his ‘process.’ ”
I’m silent for a moment, digesting this. This isn’t what I imagined of Seb—but then, I’ve only had a few conversations with him, I remind myself. I’ve never seen him in a work situation. Maybe he’s more cautious and set in his ways than he appears.
“We had a big meeting yesterday,” Ryan continues. “Who ends up taking it? Me. They’re talking about tech. I let them have their say, but then I’m like, ‘Have you even been to San Francisco? Have you met the guys at the cutting edge? Because I have. I know their names. I’ve swum in their fucking pools.’ ”
“Wow,” I breathe. “That sounds amazing!”
“I was telling them about tech start-ups they hadn’t even heard of.” Ryan nods. “They were writing it all down. Lapping it up.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Seb,” says Ryan, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t like it.”
“How could he not like it?” I say, perplexed. “You’re only sharing information.”
“He’s a control freak.” Ryan shrugs. “He’s like, ‘Stay in your box, Ryan.’ But I don’t stay in boxes. Sorry, but that’s who I am.”
His California-blue eyes are shining and he’s brimming over with energy. I have a sudden vision of him taking a boardroom by storm. Blowing everyone away with his charisma and insider knowledge. Of course he’s made an impact, how could he not? And maybe he’s right—maybe Seb doesn’t like it.
“Well, it’s early days,” I say at last. “I’d tread carefully if I were you. Be tactful.”
“Oh, I am.” Ryan nods again. “And you know what, I’m not complaining. It’s all good. The main thing is, I’m in work, and that’s down to you.”
He looks so radiant, I can’t help beaming back.
“I’m so proud of you,” I say, gazing up at him. “They’re lucky to have you!”
“Fixie,” he says affectionately, and kisses my nose. “Every guy needs a Fixie, you know that?”
“I’ve missed you,” I murmur, running my hands down his back.
“Mmm, me too,” he says, but he doesn’t kiss me again. He’s looking at his phone over my shoulder, I realize.
I mean, fair enough. People can look at phones. It’s not against the law.
I move my hands still lower and caress him, trying to make my meaning plain. I’ve been longing for Ryan. All I want to do is go upstairs and reunite properly and forget everything else. But Ryan doesn’t respond.
“Hmm,” he says vaguely—then he focuses on me as though for the first time. “You know what? I’m ravenous. And I’ve got a stack of washing in the hall. Jake and Leila’s machine is bust.”
“Oh,” I say, halted. “Well, I’ll put that on here. And let’s eat. We’ve got some steak,” I add, opening the fridge and peering in. “Does that sound good?”
“Awesome,” says Ryan, wandering out. “Tell me when it’s ready. I’ll find something on telly.”
As I get the frying pan from its rack, I don’t know exactly how to feel. Deep down, I was hoping that Ryan would sweep me upstairs at once and ravish me. And even more deep down—like, fathoms down—I was hoping he might say something like, “Fixie, I love you.” Or: “Fixie, I’ve always loved you, it’s always been you, have you never realized that?”
No, stop it. Let’s not aim too high.
Anyway, this is better than rushing off for instant sex the minute I set foot inside the door. It’s far better.
Isn’t it?
Yes, I tell myself firmly. It’s definitely better. Because he wants to be with me for me. Not simply for sex but as a person.
The TV comes on in the other room, and the familiar sound fills me with a sudden wave of warmth. Of course this is better. Of course it is! Here we are, a proper domesticated couple, making supper and asking about each other’s day. It’s what I always wanted. Coziness. Intimacy. We may not live together, but it’s as good as.
As I start to peel a potato, I find myself humming happily. There was Mum, saying Ryan was flaky. And Hannah, saying it would never last. But they were both wrong. He’s here! With me! All the troubles of the day are starting to recede, even Uncle Ned. The point is, if you have someone to come home to, nothing’s that bad, and now I have Ryan to come home to. My teenage self still can’t quite believe it, but it’s true! Ryan Chalker is here and he’s mine.
Twelve
A month later, Mum is in Paris. I can’t quite believe it, but she is. She’s posted a million pictures of herself and Aunty Karen on her new Facebook page. (Mum? Facebook?) There are shots of Mum at the Eiffel Tower, Mum sitting at a pavement-café table, and Mum with Aunty Karen in white robes at a spa. (Mum? A spa?)
As I say, it’s unbelievable. Although, to be fair, there’s a lot about life at the moment that I can’t quite believe. I can’t believe that Ryan and I are still together as a couple, in a solid domestic routine that makes me want to hug myself with joy. He comes round at least twice a week and I cook for him and we watch telly and it’s lovely. It’s low-key. It’s mellow. All the things I never dared to dream that Ryan and I might be.
Nor can I believe that we’re hosting a party tonight at Farrs to “reposition” ourselves—Jake’s word, not mine—for which he’s hired a red carpet and a photographer and a DJ and a bouncer. (A bouncer?)
But above all, I can’t believe what Hannah is telling me about her and Tim. This can’t be right; it can’t.
We’re in the back room at Farrs, touching up our makeup together. Jake has renamed the room “Backstage” for tonight and has equipped it with three bottles of champagne, one of which Hannah immediately opened.
“He just announced it,” she’s saying miserably, taking a gulp. “He sat down on the sofa and said, “ ‘I don’t want a baby anymore.’ ”
“How can he not want a baby anymore?” I say, incredulous. “Your whole life has been about trying for a baby.”
“I know! He says he’s changed his mind. He says he’s allowed to change his mind and he doesn’t have to explain it. What kind of person says that?”
Tim, I silently answer.
“Maybe he’s just having a wobble,” I say. “Take him out to supper, have a glass of wine, and talk it through.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She looks doleful. “I dunno. We’re not getting on too well.”
“Really? Why not?”
“It’s my fault.” Hannah hesitates. “I’ve been off my game. We had a big row at the weekend. I … I put my foot in it. I upset him.”
“How?” I can’t help asking. Tim is basically made of Teflon. I can’t even imagine Hannah upsetting him.
“It’s kind of mortifying.” She stares into her glass.
“What?” I say, agog. “Hannah, come on. What?”
“We were at this dinner party,” says Hannah reluctantly. “The talk turned to male circumcision and sex. I’d been working since six A.M., by the way,” she adds defensively. “My brain was fried. I couldn’t think straight.”
“I’m not going to judge you!” I exclaim. “What did you say?”
“OK.” She breathes out. “So everyone was discussing whether circumcision affects sex. And I said to Tim, across the table, ‘Well, you’re not circumcised, are you, babe? And it doesn’t make you any less sensitive.’ ”
“What’s wrong with that?” I say, puzzled. “I mean, it’s a bit indiscreet …”
“You don’t understand.” Hannah shakes her head wildly. “He looked at me with this horrible flat look, and he said, ‘But, Hannah, I am circumcised.’ ”
“Oh my God!” I clap my hand over my mouth. “Is he?”
“Yes! He is! He always has been! I don’t know what happened. I must have had a brain-freeze.”
“Shit!” I quell a sudden terrible urge to laugh. I mustn’t laugh.
“It was so embarrassing.” Hannah screws up her face in agony. “The whole table heard. They were like, ‘How can you not know if your own husband is circumcised or not? Have you never even noticed?’ They teased us all evening. And Tim …” She pauses. “He didn’t take it very well.”
“Huh,” I say, regaining control of myself. “That’s understandable.”
“I know. I mean, what he should have done was say nothing. How would anyone have known? I told him that afterward. I said, ‘Why did you even open your mouth?’ But it didn’t help.”
“Right,” I say, a bit lost for words. “Well—”
“How could I forget my own husband’s penis?” Hannah’s voice rises in agitation. “His penis?”
“Er.…” I peer at her strained face. “Hannah, don’t take this the wrong way, but is there any chance you’re pregnant already? You might have got … I dunno. Pregnancy tension or whatever?”
“No! I haven’t got pregnancy tension; I’ve got trying-for-pregnancy tension!” Hannah erupts. “It’s turning me into a madwoman! How do people do it?”
“I have no idea,” I admit. “Look, try to forget about it. You’ll pull through. Tim and you are solid.”
“Yes.” Hannah seems to calm down a bit. “Maybe. Anyway, this is your evening. Let’s not talk about me anymore. It looks amazing out there!” She gestures toward the shop floor.
The place has been transformed for the party. Jake closed early and brought in a team of removers. They’ve packed away about half
the stock, got rid of the display tables, put up lights and a bar for drinks. A DJ has set up speakers and a laptop. There are also massive posters everywhere, with Nicole’s face blown up huge and MEET THE FACE OF FARRS, printed at the bottom.
I mean, to be fair, it does look amazing. It just doesn’t look much like a shop. Let alone our shop.
“So, who’s coming tonight?” inquires Hannah.
“Up to Jake.” I spread my hands. “This is his thing. He says it’s a ‘curated’ guest list.”
“Oh, curated,” says Hannah, and shoots me a sardonic look, which I return.
Hannah is the only person to whom I will ever be disloyal about the family, because basically she is family. So she knows what I think of Jake. And all Jake’s ideas.
“He went through the customer database,” I tell her, lowering my voice. “And he chose all the ones with posh post codes.”
“Posh post codes!” echoes Hannah incredulously. “What counts as posh?”
“God knows. And he’s got an ‘influencer’ coming. This YouTube girl called Kitten Smith. And the local press. And we’ve all got to look ‘glamorous and sophisticated.’ Jake gave all the staff a lecture today. Poor Morag looked totally freaked out.”
“Well, you look very glamorous and sophisticated,” says Hannah loyally, and I roll my eyes with a grin. I went to get a blow-dry this afternoon, but no way was I splashing out on a new dress, so I’m in the dark green shift I wore to be Nicole’s bridesmaid. “What does your mum think?” Hannah adds. “Isn’t this costing a fortune?”
“Mum’s OK with it,” I say with a shrug. “She says it’s Jake’s thing and it’s harmless enough.”
I try not to give away my sense of betrayal. I phoned Mum up two weeks ago because I was worried about all Jake’s grandiose party plans. I wanted her to agree with me and tell him to rein it in—but she said, “Ah, love, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” in her easy way. And I didn’t want to press it and cause stress and ruin her holiday. So here we are.
I Owe You One: A Novel Page 16
