I Owe You One: A Novel

by Sophie Kinsella

  “I can talk to her,” I volunteer. “If that’s easier?”

  “No, I’ll do it,” says Hannah, as I knew she would, because she’s like me—she does things for herself.

  “Come here.” I pull her in for a hug. “I want you to relax. Both you and Tim. And you will.”

  “What about you?” asks Hannah as we eventually draw apart. “I haven’t even asked about—”

  “Oh, you know,” I cut her off hurriedly. “Nothing to see. All over.”

  It’s nearly two weeks since that mortifying night at 6 Folds Place. I haven’t seen Jake or Leila since the morning after and I certainly haven’t heard anything from Ryan.

  “Well, you know what I think,” says Hannah. And I nod because I do, and we’ve said it all, both of us.

  —

  I know Tim’s on his way home from work and I suspect Hannah wants to have a long talk with him, so I don’t stay for supper, even though she offers. As I step outside her front door, the air is so freezing, I gasp. It’s the coldest October on record and they’re talking about snow.

  Greg loves it. He kept going outside today to survey the gray sky knowingly and using the word Snowpocalypse. I had to turn down suggestions from him that Farrs should stock balaclavas, sleds, and urine bottles (urine bottles?) from some activewear catalog that he adores.

  “People are going to need this stuff,” he said about twenty times. “You wait.”

  The more he pestered me, the firmer my resolve became: I am never, ever stocking a urine bottle. I don’t care if it is the Snowpocalypse. I don’t care if they were used on a genuine polar expedition, I don’t want to know.

  (I must admit, I did wonder: What about girls? And I would have asked Greg, except he would have given me some frank and terrible answer which would have lodged in my brain forever.)

  I walk briskly through the streets of Hammersmith and I’m nearing the tube station when I get an incoming call from Drew. I haven’t heard from him for a while.

  “Drew!” I exclaim. “How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m good, thanks,” he says, sounding preoccupied. “Is Nicole with you, by any chance?”

  “No,” I say in surprise.

  “It’s just that I keep trying her phone, but she’s not picking up.”

  “Oh,” I say warily. “Well, maybe her phone’s broken or something.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Maybe.” Drew exhales and there’s a short silence. Quite an expensive silence, I can’t help thinking, what with him being in Abu Dhabi.

  “Drew,” I venture, “is everything OK?”

  “Well, not really,” says Drew heavily. “Here’s the thing. Nicole keeps saying she’ll come out and visit me here in Abu Dhabi. She promises she’ll get a flight. But then she doesn’t. Has she mentioned it to you at all?”

  “No,” I admit. “But then, we don’t talk that much.”

  “I know she’s really busy, being the face of Farrs and doing her yoga and all that,” he says. “And I respect that, Fixie, I do. I’m proud of her. But when I first came out here, we planned that she’d come over soon for a visit. Well, that was months ago!”

  “Maybe she’s making plans I don’t know about,” I say evasively.

  “Fair enough.” He sighs. “Well, sorry to bother you.”

  He rings off and I walk for a while, my brow crinkled. Nicole’s never even mentioned going to Abu Dhabi. Which is pretty weird, now I think about it. Why wouldn’t she go and visit her own husband who she misses so much?

  I’m just reminding myself that other people’s relationships are a mystery and there’s no point speculating about them, when my phone bleeps with a text. I look down, expecting it to be Hannah or maybe Drew again—but it’s from him. Seb. And it’s just one word:

  Help.

  Help?

  I stare at it, disconcerted, then ring his number. It rings and rings and I’m expecting it to go to voicemail, but then suddenly his voice is in my ear.

  “Oh, hello,” he says, sounding taken aback and kind of strained. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. D’you mind— I’m slightly in the middle of something—”

  “Are you OK?” I say, a bit bewildered. “You texted me Help.”

  “I texted you?” He curses. “I’m so sorry. I meant to text my assistant, Fred. Must have pressed the wrong number. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

  “Of course not,” I say, my brow creasing. “Of course you haven’t.” But I feel a bit perplexed. Why would he text his assistant Help? “Are you sure you’re OK?” I add impulsively.

  “I’ve … I’ve been better,” says Seb after a pause, and now he sounds breathless. “Been attacked, actually. My fault for cutting behind the Horizon. It’s always been a dodgy alley.”

  “Attacked?” I nearly drop my phone in horror. “Are you— What happened?”

  “It’s really nothing,” he says at once. “Some guys decided they wanted my wallet, that’s all. Only I seem to have done in my ankle, and I can’t move and I’m a bit out of the way here. Thankfully they were too repelled by my ancient phone to take that.”

  He’s lying in an alley and he’s been mugged and he’s making jokes about his phone. I half want to smile and half want to yell, “Take this seriously!”

  “Have you dialed 999?” I ask. “What have you done?”

  “Dialed 999?” Seb sounds horrified at the idea. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I just need to get to a hospital. Fred will come and pick me up; he lives in Southwark. It’s two minutes from Bermondsey. That’s where I am,” he adds as an afterthought.

  “So why haven’t you called him?” I demand, sounding almost aggressive in my worry.

  “I tried,” says Seb patiently. “Then I texted him, or so I thought. If I can’t get through to Fred, I have a lot of other willing colleagues and friends I can easily reach, if you could kindly get off the line—”

  “Oh,” I say. “Yes. Of course. Sorry.”

  But I don’t want to get off the line. I don’t feel happy about this. What if he can’t get through to Fred?

  “You should dial 999,” I say.

  “The 999 service is overstretched,” says Seb, his voice coming in little fits and jerks. “Don’t you read the papers? It’s for real emergencies. I’m not dying; I’m not having a baby; I’m not stuck up a tree. But I would quite like to get through to my assistant, so I’m going to ring off now. Bye.”

  The line goes dead and I stare at my phone, my heart thumping and thoughts jostling in my head.

  I mean, it’s his life.

  And I’m sure he’s right: He’s got loads of friends who will pop straight round in their car, scoop him up, and take him to hospital. He’ll be on the phone by now. They’ll be getting in their car. It’ll all be fine.

  Do not interfere, Fixie. Do not interfere.

  I put my phone in my pocket, exhale loudly, walk three steps—then stop dead. My fingers are drumming against each other. Now my feet start pacing: forward-across-back, forward-across-back.

  I can’t not do something, I can’t, I can’t.

  Hurriedly, I find Google Maps, search the Horizon in Bermondsey—it turns out to be a cinema—and locate the alley Seb must be in. Hook Alley, that has to be it. Then I haul my phone out, dial 999, and wait to be connected. Just the act of dialing reminds me of when Mum collapsed, and I feel fresh shoots of anxiety.

  “Hello,” I say, as soon as I hear an operator’s voice. “I need ambulance and police. The address is Hook Alley, Bermondsey. There’s an injured person and he needs help and he was mugged and … please hurry. Please.”

  They keep me on the line for what seems like ages, asking me questions I can’t possibly answer. But at last they tell me to please keep this phone with me and that the services have been alerted. I ring off, then frantically flag down a taxi. I can’t risk the tub
e—no signal—and I need to get to Hook Alley.

  As we set off, I call Seb’s number, but it goes straight to busy. What’s he busy doing? Being rescued?

  Will he be furious that I called 999?

  Well, I don’t care. Let him be furious.

  It takes forty-five minutes to reach Bermondsey, and I sit tensely for the whole journey. As I scramble out at Hook Alley, I’m half expecting to see blue lights, but there’s no ambulance in sight. There’s crime tape, though, and a few people loitering about, gawking even despite the cold, plus a couple of police officers guarding the scene. As I try to get near, I feel a horrible dread looming.

  “Hi,” I say to the nearest police officer, who seems engrossed in his walkie-talkie. “I made the call; it was me.…” My voice is disintegrating breathlessly, but for once it’s not because of Jake; it’s because of fear. “Is he OK?”

  “Excuse me,” says the police officer, not seeming to hear me, and heads off to consult his partner. I’m desperate to clamber under the crime tape, but I’ve seen enough TV shows to know what happens if you do that. The scene gets contaminated and the court throws out the case, and there’s no justice, and grieving families yell at you.

  So instead I stand there, almost hyperventilating, needing to know: Where is he? How is he? What happened?

  Abruptly, I realize I’ve been muttering aloud, and a nearby man has heard me. He’s a broad gray-haired guy in a massive puffer jacket and seems to be standing there for no other reason except to watch.

  “Beat him up, they did,” he says in an accent which reminds me so strongly of Dad, I feel a sudden visceral pang. “He was out like a light. Wheeled him off on a stretcher. I saw it.”

  Tears of shock start to my eyes. Out like a light?

  “But he was conscious!” I say. “I was talking to him! How could he— What happened?”

  The man shrugs. “He had rubbish all over him too. They emptied a bin on him, I guess. They’re animals, they are. If I had my way they’d get what’s coming to ’em. Forget parole, for a start,” he adds, warming to his theme. “None of this nancy-boy treatment. Send ’em all on National Service, that’d sort ’em out—”

  “Sorry,” I interrupt desperately. “Sorry. I just really need to know where they’ve taken him. Which hospital. Do you have any idea?”

  The man’s mouth twitches. He doesn’t say anything but takes a few paces to the corner and swivels his head meaningfully. I follow him, then turn my own head—and find myself staring at the top of a building. Distinctive metal letters are illuminated against the evening sky and they read: THE NEW LONDON HOSPITAL.

  Of course. I’m so stupid.

  “Won’t have taken him nowhere else, will they?” says the man. “Emergency’s round the back. Don’t even try to get a cab,” he adds. “The one-way round here’s a shocker. Quicker to walk.”

  “Thanks,” I gasp, already hurrying away. “Thanks so much. Thanks.”

  I sprint through the back streets, panting in the freezing air, not stopping until my heart feels it will explode. Then I walk for a bit, then run again, then get lost under a railway arch. But finally I make it to the bright lights and bustle of the New London Hospital’s emergency room.

  As I step inside, the hospital smell hits me first. Then the noise. I know emergency rooms are always busy, but … bloody hell. This is mayhem. Far worse than when we took Mum in. There are people everywhere. All the plastic chairs are full, and a guy with a gash on his forehead is sitting on the floor nearby. About three babies are howling, and a man with vomit on his jacket is drunkenly berating his … Is that gray-haired, anxious-looking woman his mother?

  Averting my eyes, I head to the desk and wait for what seems like an eternity before a brisk woman says, “Can I help?”

  “Hi, I’m here for Sebastian Marlowe. Has he been admitted?”

  The woman types at her computer, then raises her head and gives me a suspicious look.

  “He was admitted earlier,” she says. “He’s been sent for tests.”

  “What kind of tests?” I ask anxiously. “I mean, is he … Will he be …”

  “You’ll have to speak to a doctor,” she says. “Are you family?”

  “I … Not exactly … I know him, though. I made the 999 call.”

  “Hmm. Well, if you wait, you can speak to the doctor who— Oh, you’re in luck. Lily!”

  She beckons over a pretty Asian-looking doctor, who seems so rushed off her feet, I can hardly bear to hold her up. But I have to know.

  “Hello, can I help?” she says charmingly.

  “Sorry to delay you,” I say in a rush. “I’m here about Sebastian Marlowe. I’m the one who called 999. I just need to know, will he be OK? I mean, is he—”

  “Please don’t worry,” she says, gently cutting me off. “He regained consciousness soon after arrival. We’re giving him a CAT scan, though, as a precaution, and taking a couple of X-rays. He’s in good hands and I suggest you go home. Tomorrow he’ll be on a ward, and if you want to, you can visit then. He’s very lucky that you phoned 999,” she adds. “Good job.”

  She smiles again and is moving off, when something else occurs to me.

  “Wait!” I say, hurrying after her. “Am I the only person who knows he’s here? Do his next of kin … does anyone else know?”

  He doesn’t have any family, I’ve suddenly remembered, and the thought makes my throat constrict. Here he is, beaten up in hospital, with no family, no one at all—

  “I’m fairly sure one of the nurses made a call for him,” says the doctor, crinkling her brow in thought. “She spoke to his … girlfriend?”

  The word stops me short. Girlfriend.

  I mean, of course. His girlfriend. Whiny. He has her. She’ll be the one he wants to see.

  “Great!” I say a little heartily. “Perfect. His girlfriend. That’s—yes. Well. So. My work is done. I’ll just—so. I’ll go home, then.”

  “As I say, he’ll be on a ward tomorrow,” she says kindly. “Why not come back then?”

  As she meets my gaze with her wise doctor’s eyes, I have a weird conviction that she gets it. She somehow understands that I have to know how Seb is, because I feel this strange, inextricable link to him. Which isn’t a relationship—God, of course not. We’re not even friends, really. It’s just … it’s a different kind of thing. A yearning. A tugging in my heart. A need to be with him and know that he’s OK. I mean, what would you call that?

  I blink and meet the doctor’s patient gaze again. Does she understand it all?

  Or am I projecting?

  OK, I’m projecting. She’s just waiting for me to go away. God, Fixie, get a grip.

  “Thanks,” I say for a final time. “Thanks so much.” And I head out of the hospital before I can catch a superbug.

  He’s safe. That’s all I needed to know. And Whiny will visit him tomorrow. Or his friends will, or whatever. So, really, there’s no need for me to. That’s the end. Job done.

  Fifteen

  Except that at five the next morning I’m wide awake, knowing only one thing: I have to go and see him.

  I don’t care if Briony’s by his side. I don’t care if a whole army of friends turn to stare and say, “Who are you?” I don’t even care if his colleagues whisper to each other, “It’s that awful girl who introduced Ryan to the company! Yes, her!”

  By 6:00 A.M. I’ve conjured up about a million possible scenarios, each more embarrassing than the last, but I’m still resolved. I’m going. No one can stop me. I know I don’t have any actual relationship with Seb. I know I can’t even claim to be a friend. But the thing is, until I see him with my own eyes, all I can picture is crime tape and police officers and my own lurid visions of him lying on a stretcher, hovering between life and death.

  I text Greg, telling him that a medical emergency has come up (true), then spend
two hours agonizing over what to take. Flowers? Do guys like flowers? They might say they do, but do they actually?

  No. I don’t think they do. I think guys actually like cans of beer and expensive remote controls and football games. But I can’t take any of those to a hospital bed.

  Chocolates? Sweets?

  But what if his mouth got bashed and he can’t eat?

  My stomach gives a nasty twinge at the thought, and I shake my head to dispel my worst fears. I’ll see him soon enough. I’ll know the full picture.

  Then the answer hits me: a plant! It’s uplifting and natural like flowers but not quite as frilly. And it’ll last longer. There’s bound to be a plant shop somewhere on the way.

  I check the hospital website for visiting times, phone Greg to make sure he’s opened up, change my outfit three times, google plant shops, spray myself with scent, then stare at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing nothing fancy: just jeans and a nice top.

  OK, my best jeans. And my nicest top. It’s chiffony and a bit dressy, with sheer sleeves. But it’s not too dressy, definitely not, it’s simply … nice. It’s a nice top.

  Which is of course totally irrelevant. In sudden shame, I realize I’ve been looking at my reflection for three minutes and hastily turn away. As if what I look like matters. Come on. Time to go.

  —

  The nearest florist to the hospital is called Plants and Petals, and as I arrive I feel it should be hauled up for misrepresentation. There are no plants, only flowers. And those are mostly of the frilly pink variety.

  “Oh, hi,” I say to the girl behind the counter. “I’m after a plant. Quite a plain plant. For a man,” I clarify. “It needs to be masculine-looking. Strong-looking.”

  I’m hoping she might say, “Step this way, the masculine plants are in the back,” but she just sweeps an aimless hand around and says, “Help yourself. Carnations are half price.”

  “Yes,” I say patiently, “but I don’t want carnations, I want a plant. A masculine plant.”

  The girl looks blankly at me as though she has no idea what a masculine plant is. I mean, come on. Masculine plants are definitely a thing. And if they’re not, then they should be.