“Bastard fired me,” says Ryan, so lightly that at first I think I must have misheard.
“What?”
Ryan gives me a humorless smile and lifts his glass in a mock toast. “You heard me, Fixie. Bastard fired me. I’ve lost my job.”
—
Shock is too small a word for what I’m feeling right now. I’m beyond shocked. I’m stunned. Ryan’s lost his job?
We’ve commandeered the back room. I’ve forgotten about the party. All I can think about is Ryan.
“I just don’t get it,” I say, sinking into a chair opposite Ryan. “It makes no sense. How exactly did it happen?”
“Seb called me in and said it ‘wasn’t working out.’ ” Ryan shrugs. “That was it. The end. Finished.”
“But why?”
“I think you know why,” he says wryly.
I lean forward, surveying Ryan’s face, registering his calm, resigned expression.
“Seb was threatened by you,” I say. “Is that it?”
“Let’s just say, I saw it coming,” says Ryan, and takes a slug of his drink. “He’s right, it wasn’t working out. It wasn’t working out for him.”
“Because you were competition,” I say bluntly, and Ryan nods his head in assent.
My cloud of shock is starting to fade away and anger is rising in its place. It’s so unfair. It’s monstrous. Why couldn’t they work together? Why did Seb have to see Ryan as a threat? He promises him a chance, then dumps him? It’s just wrong.
“You know, I wouldn’t mind,” Ryan says, leaning back and looking pensively at the ceiling. “Only I gave a good few weeks to that place. I could have used that time to job-hunt. Truth is, he was never planning to employ me permanently. He was never going to keep me on. He only did it as a favor to you. Payback. Whatever.”
Everything seems so clear now. Seb was never going to take Ryan seriously as an employee. The whole thing was like a game, and I should never, ever have kick-started it.
“I wish I’d never claimed that stupid IOU,” I say passionately, getting to my feet. “I wish I’d never set eyes on him in the first place.”
“You weren’t to know.” Ryan shrugs again. “I just wish he’d been honest in the first place. He takes all my ideas, wrings me dry, and kicks me out. Still, what’s done is done.”
“So what will you do?”
“You know, Fixie … I have no idea. When a guy hits rock bottom, it’s like, what are the options?”
Ryan seems so resigned. So crushed. But I’m not resigned or crushed. I’m crackling with indignation. My fingers are drumming relentlessly. My feet are doing their thing: forward-across-back, forward-across-back. I can’t stay here. I can’t let Seb Marlowe get away with it. Who does he think he is?
Drawing myself up short, I suddenly recall the vow I made to myself in Seb’s office. I wasn’t going to try to fix stuff anymore, not unless it was super-important and vital.
But then, what’s this if not super-important and vital?
Abruptly, I reach for my bag and coat.
“I’ll be back in a while,” I say. “Stay at mine tonight. We’ll sort all this out.”
As I stride through the party, I feel grim and determined. “I have to go,” I say to Hannah. “Can you tell Jake?”
“Well, sure,” she says, looking surprised. “But what—”
“I have to fix a thing,” I say succinctly, and march out.
I stride to the tube station, travel all the way to Farringdon, and get out, feeling stony and unforgiving. Within a few minutes I’m at the ESIM building and I glance up as I approach, feeling suddenly foolish. I rushed out in such a blaze of indignation, I didn’t think about what time it was. Maybe no one’s there and I’ve wasted my time …
But there are lights on. A few, at least.
My heart pumping, I press the buzzer and someone—not sure who—lets me in. I rise up in the lift and emerge, all ready to say, “I’d like to see the CEO, please,” in my most cutting tones—but he’s there. It’s him. Seb. He’s waiting for the lift, looking fairly astonished to see me.
“It’s you,” he says. “I thought—”
“Hi,” I say curtly. “I wanted to see you. If that’s convenient?”
There’s a short silence. Seb’s pleasant gaze doesn’t waver, but I can sense his brain is working.
“Sure,” he says at last. “Come on in.”
As I follow him to his office, I notice he’s looking slightly rumpled, as though he’s spent too long at work, and his brown frondy hair is askew.
I fight an urge to put it straight. That would not be appropriate. Anyway, I need to focus. I need to come in fighting.
His office is warm and inviting, just like it was before. The coffee-cup sleeve is still on his desk, I notice, and I feel a pang of indignation. Some favor. Some favor that was.
“So,” he says as we sit down, and from his wary tone I sense he knows exactly why I’m here. It seems only about five minutes ago that I was here with Ryan, feeling so joyful that everything was working out. The memory fuels my rage, and I take a deep breath.
“I simply wanted to say,” I begin in my most castigating tones, “that I think when you enter into an agreement with someone you should do it in good faith. That’s all. You should have honest intentions.”
“I agree,” says Seb after a pause.
“Oh, you agree,” I say sarcastically.
I know sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, but I’ve never actually known what that means, and I don’t care. Low is fine. Low is good.
“Yes,” says Seb steadily. “I agree.”
“Well, I don’t,” I shoot back—then instantly realize that’s wrong. It’s his fault. He’s flustering me. “I mean, I do,” I amend. “I do agree. But that’s not how you’ve treated Ryan. It’s a travesty! Just because he’s a man of the world, you can’t cope with him? Just because he has ambition and vision and knowledge in areas you don’t? Were you so threatened you couldn’t find a way to make it work? Or is he right and you never intended to keep him on at all?”
As I break off, I’m breathing hard. I’m expecting Seb to spring to some feeble defense, but he’s staring at me as though I’m talking gibberish.
“What?” he says at last.
“What do you mean, ‘what’?” I say, incensed. “I heard all about it! I know you blocked Ryan from coming to meetings. I know the staff were asking his advice. I know he could see all the flaws in your company. He’s got charisma and experience and you couldn’t cope! So you get rid of him!”
“Oh my God,” says Seb. “Oh my God.” He gets up, running his hands through his hair, walks to the window, and gives a weird laugh. “OK, where do I start? Do you know the disruption that Ryan Chalker has caused to this company? Do you know how obtuse, how stupid … how inane he is? If I had to hear one more anecdote about some tech guy in a pool in L.A.… I was going to go bonkers!” He wheels round, his face animated. “I didn’t ban him from meetings—the staff did! They petitioned me! He wouldn’t bloody shut up!”
“Maybe you didn’t listen properly!” I say defensively. “He has massive experience—”
“In what?” says Seb incredulously. “Eating lunch at Nobu? Because that’s all he ever talked about.”
“OK,” I say tightly. “Well, you were clearly never going to give him a chance. He was right. You never even tried to make it work.”
“I didn’t try?” Seb sounds outraged. “Here’s what I did. I gave him a mentor. I gave him advice. I sent him on training days. I discussed financial exams with him. And what does he do? Mock our ethos. Derail every meeting he goes to. Name-drop us all to death, fail to complete a single one of the assignments I actually gave him … and start sleeping with not one but two members of my staff! Not one, but two!” He clutches his hair. “It’s been turmoil here! One found out
about the other; we’ve had tears at meetings—” He stops and peers at me. “Wait. You’ve gone very pale. Are you OK?”
I’m staring back at him, my head thudding. Did he just say—
He didn’t— He couldn’t have—
“Wh-what do you mean?” I say at last. “Sleeping with who? Who do you mean?”
“I don’t think it’s relevant who they were,” says Seb, eyeing me curiously. “I’ve been too indiscreet already.”
“I don’t believe you.” My voice shakes. “I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t believe me? Why on earth wouldn’t you—” Seb sounds incredulous—then his face suddenly changes. “Oh strewth. Are you and Ryan … You’re not—” He breaks off, looking agonized. “He said he was single. He told the whole office he was a single guy. I would never have … I’m sorry. That was …”
He stops again, as though he doesn’t know how to finish, and there’s silence.
My eyes are hot. My gaze is flitting around the office. I can’t look at him. I’m thinking: He’s lying. He’s lying.
But I’m also thinking: Why would he lie? Why would he lie?
I’m remembering all the times Ryan was “too tired” for sex. And how understanding I was. How I made him lamb hot pot and rubbed his back and thought, Give it time.
Have I been the biggest, stupidest fool in the world? Did I want the famous Ryan Chalker so badly, I blinded myself to the facts?
“Can I just ask a question?” I manage at last. “Do your staff play pool together three times a week?”
“Three times a week?” Seb seems taken aback. “No! Not that I know of. Maybe once a month. Why?”
“No reason.” I swallow hard. I’m trying to stay composed, even as everything comes crashing down inside me. Ryan wasn’t playing pool. He was with other women. Maybe that Erica he kept talking about. He never wanted to be cozy and intimate and domesticated. I was a free meal and a back rub twice a week.
At last, Seb moves forward a step. I shoot a glance at him and see a troubled, earnest gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But that man is … He’s not good. In my opinion. How long have you known him?”
“All my life,” I retort roughly. “Since I was ten.”
“Ah.” His face crinkles in an expression I can’t read.
“We were only in a casual thing,” I say quickly. “It was no big deal. So.”
But it’s far too little, far too late. I can tell from Seb’s face that he knows I’m devastated. His woodland eyes are alive with sympathy. His brow is furrowed with pity for me. I can’t stand it.
“Anyway. Clearly Ryan and you didn’t work out professionally. Which is a shame. Thank you for explaining it all to me.” I gather my coat and bag with trembling hands.
“Fixie, I’m so sorry.” Seb is watching me. “I didn’t mean— I had no idea—”
“Of course not!” My voice is shrill. “And that’s not why—I simply wanted to find out what had gone wrong professionally with you and Ryan. I was simply interested. You did me a favor, and it went wrong so—” I break off as a new thought hits me. “You did me a favor,” I repeat more slowly. “You hired Ryan. And your company suffered as a result. So now I owe you one.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Seb with a short laugh. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do.”
“You don’t! Fixie, we’re even.”
I can sense his eyes trying to meet mine, his smile trying to lighten things, but I can’t be lightened. I’m heavy and sad and there are tears gathering behind my eyes.
I grab the coffee sleeve, not meeting his eye, and take a pen from his desk. Underneath the Paid I wrote before, I scribble some new words:
I owe you one and I’ll never be able to pay you back. So. Sorry about that.
I sign it, then drop the pen down.
“Bye,” I say, and I turn and go. I can hear Seb saying something else, calling something, but I don’t stop to listen. I need to leave.
—
By the time I get back to Acton, I feel exhausted. I’ve tried out every phrase in my head, every accusation. I feel as though I’ve had about six rows with Ryan already.
I’m already mentally batting away the patronizing response that I know will come my way. He’ll try to look all surprised, like I’m being possessive and unreasonable. He’ll say, “Fixie, I said we shouldn’t rush things, remember?” The thought makes my heart pump with outrage. Not rushing things is not the same as sleeping with two other women on the side. It is not.
When I think how I believed his version of everything, how I rationalized everything he said and did, I feel warm with stupidity. But he was so convincing.
Wasn’t he?
Or maybe I just wanted to believe him, a little voice says in my head. Maybe I ignored what I didn’t want to see. Painful realizations are filling my head, one after another, till I close my eyes to escape them. I can’t think about all my mistakes now. It is what it is.
The party is pretty much over as I burst back into the shop. None of the staff are left, nor Hannah. Leila is sitting on a chair, scrolling through her phone, and Jake is talking to some jowly guy in a pink shirt, but I can’t see Ryan anywhere.
“Oh, Fixie,” says Leila, looking up. “There you are.”
“Where’s Ryan?” I demand, and Leila opens her eyes wide in astonishment.
“Didn’t he tell you? Hasn’t he texted? He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“He went to catch a train. He’s staying with his cousin in … Leicester?” She crinkles her brow. “Something like that. The Midlands, anyway. He says there are more opportunities for him outside London.”
“The Midlands?” I stare at her. This makes no sense. He can’t have just left.
“I said to him, ‘What about Fixie?’ but he said you’d understand and you’d talked about it and everything.” Leila looks innocently at me. “He said you’d be OK.”
We’d talked about it? That’s what he said? But that’s—
And suddenly I can’t believe I’ve fallen for anything Ryan’s said, ever. He’s just a lie machine. That’s what he is, and it’s taken me this long to work it out.
“He was in a real mood,” adds Leila regretfully. “He kept saying there was nothing for him in London anymore. He was telling us all about losing his job. You know, that Seb guy sounds awful.” She surveys me with her doe-like mascaraed eyes. “You’ve met him, haven’t you?”
I stare at her, barely hearing the question. I’m still a bit dazed. Ryan has lied about everything and now he’s gone and I don’t even get to have it out with him. My pent-up rage and humiliation have nowhere to go except right back into my heart.
“What’s he like?” Leila persists, and I blink at her, coming to. “Is he as bad as Ryan says? Because he sounds like a monster!”
I flash back to Seb in his office. Gazing at me with those troubled eyes, understanding everything. His tactful words. His hair askew. His remorse at having upset me. Trying to cheer me up. Telling me we’re even.
I’m suddenly gripped by a wish. I wish … I wish …
But I can’t finish the thought. I don’t quite know what I wish. Just that things weren’t like this.
“Seb?” I say at last, and exhale long and hard. “He’s not that bad. No. He’s … he’s not that bad.”
Thirteen
Two weeks later Mum is in St. Tropez with Aunty Karen. She keeps sending me long texts about the marina and the boats and the sunshine, and I know I should send her a proper reply—but I can’t face it. Once I start typing to Mum, everything will pour out, and I’ll start sniveling all over my keyboard.
So instead I’m zapping her lots of smiley faces and emojis of shiny suns and sailboats and dodging the truth altogether. (Maybe that’s what emojis were invented fo
r in the first place, and I’ve just been using them wrong. They’re not there to convey thoughts in a fun way; they’re there to lie to your mum.)
I’ve also sent three texts to Ryan. One very dignified and calm. One a tad less dignified and less calm. One totally desperate and shameless, trying to give him an opportunity to prove he isn’t as bad as I think.
Then I made the even bigger mistake of showing my texts to Hannah and she recoiled in horror. She threatened to come and confiscate my phone at night when I was asleep. She said she had a spare key and she’d creep through the house if need be. And I thought, Actually, she might. So I stopped.
And Ryan never replied to any of them. Nor left me a voicemail or an email, nor any messages at the shop. Nor a letter. (I mean, clearly he wasn’t going to write me a letter; I don’t know why I asked the postman if he’d dropped any envelopes.) But it’s fine, because I’m a strong-minded person and my strategy is: Simply stop thinking about him.
Well, I’m still thinking about him, obviously. Now and then. The name Ryan does pass through my thoughts; how could it not? But then, there are plenty of other things to think about right now. Like the fact that Jake still hasn’t produced a budget for the relaunch party, so I still don’t know how much he spent on it. And the fact that Nicole canceled Cake Club last night without telling me, so she could hold a mind-body-spirit talk in the store, and I’ve already had four irate emails. And the most pressing fact of all: that I’ve promised Hannah I’ll have a chat with Tim about trying for a baby. She wants me to find out why he changed his mind and, if possible, change it back.
Change it back? Me? How am I supposed to change Tim’s mind back? How am I even supposed to bring up the subject? I’ve known Tim a long time, but family planning is definitely not the kind of conversation topic we normally cover.
Hannah sounded so pleading, though, I found myself promising I’d have a go. She told me she’d bring him into the shop one day after work and I should “engage him in conversation about babies.” Only it should seem “natural.”
“I don’t want him to know I’ve spoken to you,” she said adamantly. “I want him to think he’s changed his mind back independently. OK?”
I Owe You One: A Novel Page 18
