“You don’t understand.” Nicole shoots me a glare. “God, I’m dying for a coffee. Make me a coffee, Fixie.”
I count to three, then say clearly, “Make it yourself.”
“What?” Nicole blinks at me.
“We’ve got a coffee machine.” I gesture at it. “Make it yourself.”
“Oh, but you know I can’t do it,” says Nicole at once, as though proclaiming a law of nature.
“So learn,” I say. “I’ll teach you.”
“My head can’t learn that kind of stuff.” Nicole wrinkles her nose. “It’s, like, I get a mental block? Go on, you do it, Fixie. You’re so brilliant at the coffee machine.”
And there’s something about her lazy, drifty, entitled voice that suddenly makes me flip out.
“Stop telling me I’m brilliant at things you don’t want to do!” I yell, and her head jerks up in surprise. “Stop pretending to be incompetent to get out of things!”
“What?” Nicole’s staring at me as though she’s never heard me speak before and didn’t even realize I had a voice. Which maybe she didn’t.
“You can learn the coffee machine! Of course you can. You just don’t want to! You avoid everything, Nicole! Everything! Including your own husband!”
Shit. That popped out before I could stop it.
“What are you talking about?” Nicole’s hand flutters defensively to her mouth, and I feel my face flame. That was going too far. Or was it?
I swallow a few times, my mind working furiously. I could backtrack. Apologize. Close the conversation down. But I’m not in the mood for backtracking, or apologizing, or closing the conversation down. Maybe it’s time for us to be the kind of sisters Mum always wanted us to be. The kind who actually know something meaningful about each other’s lives.
“I know it’s none of my business,” I say, more calmly. “But you never talk to him on the phone. You don’t seem to care when he’s ill. And now you don’t want to go to Abu Dhabi to see him. Nicole … do you actually love Drew?”
There’s a massive silence. Nicole’s beautiful face is swiveled away from me, but I can see a tightness at the corner of her mouth. Her fingers are fiddling with her tassely belt and I notice her chewed-up nails. Then at last she turns her head, and to my shock, her eyes are full of tears.
“I don’t know,” she says in a whisper. “I don’t know. I don’t bloody know.”
“Right,” I say, trying to hide my shock. “Well … did you love him when you married him?”
“I don’t know.” Nicole looks desperate. “I thought I did. But I might have made a massive mistake. Don’t tell Mum,” she adds quickly, and she sounds so like she did when she was fifteen years old and I found her swigging from a bottle of vodka that I can’t help a snort of laughter.
“I thought you were dying from separation anxiety,” I say, and Nicole’s nostrils flare.
“I have been really stressed out, actually,” she says, returning to her haughty self. “My yoga teacher says she’s concerned about me.”
I roll my eyes. Nicole will never not take herself seriously. But at least she’s sounding a bit more real.
“So, what went wrong?” I can’t help asking. “You seemed so happy at the wedding.”
“The wedding was great.” Nicole’s eyes soften with the memory. “And the honeymoon was great. But then I was a bit, ‘Is this it?’ There wasn’t anything to plan for anymore, you know? All the excitement was gone. It was so, I dunno, flat.”
“Couldn’t you have gone to Abu Dhabi with Drew?” I suggest. “Couldn’t you have planned for that? Why didn’t you go, anyway? Don’t tell me there aren’t yoga courses out there.”
“I panicked,” admits Nicole after a pause. “We’d had a couple of rows, and I thought, Drew and me on our own in Abu Dhabi in some expat flat? What if it all goes pear-shaped? What if we have more rows? I thought it would be easier this way. You know. It’d be …” She trails off in her usual unfinished way.
“You thought it would be easier to completely avoid your husband than to have a few rows.” I stare at her. “Yup. That makes sense.”
“It was stressful!” says Nicole defensively. “I thought, I’ll sit it out in England and it’ll work out one way or another.”
“You don’t work out a relationship by burying your head in the sand!” I exclaim incredulously. “All relationships are stressful! All relationships have rows! Do you love him?”
There’s a long silence. Nicole is twisting her hair round her fingers, her face turned away.
“Sometimes I think yes,” she says finally. “But sometimes I look at him and I think …” She flinches expressively. “But I mean, I haven’t seen him for, like, so long …”
I wait for her to continue—then realize that she’s finished. Even by Nicole standards, it’s a pretty inconclusive answer.
“Nicole, you have to go to Abu Dhabi,” I say firmly. “And then maybe you’ll find out whether you love Drew or not.”
“Yeah,” says Nicole, looking uncertain. “I suppose.”
“You have to,” I impress on her. “You need to spend time together. You need to confront this. Otherwise you don’t even know if you want to be married or not.”
“Maybe. But what if I get out there and …” Nicole trails off in her irritating way—but for once I know what she means. She means, “What if I realize I don’t love Drew?” And she looks pretty freaked out.
I mean, fair enough. I’d be freaked out too.
“I guess you have to face up to that possibility,” I say, with a sympathy I’ve never felt for Nicole before. “I mean, what else were you planning to do? Did you have a plan?”
“I don’t know! I thought …” She hesitates, chewing her nails. “I thought maybe Drew would meet someone else out there and it would all be decided for me.” And this is so ridiculous that I burst into real, proper laughter.
At once Nicole frowns, as though not sure whether to get offended or not—but then her face cracks into a smile. And I grin back. I feel like for the first time in our life, the two of us have connected. We were always like some electric circuit which didn’t work and was about to be chucked away in the bin. But now the bulb is flickering. There’s hope.
“For what it’s worth, I think Drew’s a great guy,” I say. “But that’s kind of irrelevant. The point is if he’s the right guy. For you.”
“Well, you know, either we stay married or we divorce,” replies Nicole, with a rare flash of comedy. “Win-win.” She pulls such a wry face I can’t help smiling. And now this connection has been made between us, I feel like I want to say everything I have to, very quickly.
“Nicole, there’s something else I need to say,” I blurt out. “It’s on a different topic, but it’s important. I was serious last night. You have to stop your yoga classes. We need to get back on track. Otherwise Morag will leave and Farrs will go bust and we’ll lose the house and Mum will never speak to us again.”
“You always exaggerate, Fixie.” Nicole gives me one of her dismissive eye rolls.
“I’m not exaggerating! We’re really in trouble! Bob said so,” I add for good measure. “Yesterday.”
This is a slight lie: Bob didn’t actually say we were in trouble. But everyone respects Bob. Sure enough, Nicole looks alarmed.
“Bob said we’re in trouble?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“He said …” I cross my fingers behind my back. “He said, ‘You’re in trouble.’ And it’s true!” I try to impress the facts on her. “Basically, we’ve messed up the shop while Mum’s been away and we need to put it right.”
“I haven’t messed up anything,” counters Nicole in her customary lordly manner. “Have you seen the Instagram page?” She tosses her hair back and glances at her reflection in a glass-fronted cupboard. “It
’s transformed. Everyone agrees. The images are amazing.”
“Yes, but it’s only pictures of you!” I retort in exasperation. “And the only comments are people asking you for dates!”
“It’s increased our profile,” says Nicole at once, but she sounds defensive and I can tell I’m getting through.
“We need a big Christmas push,” I say. “I have a ton of ideas but you need to help me. Proper practical help in the store.”
“Oh, I can’t,” she says at once. “I’m not available. I’m going to Abu Dhabi.”
Is she for real?
“You’re not going until the twenty-third.” I give her a flinty look. “You’re free till then. And you’re helping. And you’re doing it my way. OK? You owe it to Farrs,” I add, as she draws breath. “You owe it to Mum. You owe it to me.”
Nicole is silent for a while, her eyes narrowing. I stare at her, unblinking, realizing that this is probably the first time I’ve ever asserted myself against her.
“Fine,” she says finally, huffing loudly. “Only I’m not lugging stock about. My yoga teacher says I shouldn’t be lifting heavy items. My arms are exceptionally slender.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say, lifting my eyes skyward. “And now, welcome to the coffee machine, your new best friend.”
Shooting me a resentful look, Nicole walks over to the coffee machine and stares at it dubiously. “It’s so complicated,” she says at last.
“Yes,” I agree. “And?”
Nicole prods at the display and jumps as it lights up. Then she turns to frown suspiciously at me.
“You’ve changed, Fixie,” she says.
“Yeah.” I nod matter-of-factly. “Yeah, I have.”
“How’s your new boyfriend?” she asks, light dawning on her face, as though this might explain everything.
“He’s not,” I say succinctly. “We broke up.”
“Oh.” Nicole’s face crumples a little in sympathy. “Shit. That didn’t last long.”
“No. Well.” I shrug.
We look at each other silently and I feel like we have more in common right now than I can ever remember. We met guys and we fell in love and everything seemed to work out. Until it didn’t.
My eyes are starting to shimmer. My throat is thick. I fiercely blink my tears away, but Nicole notices. She peers at me expressionlessly—then suddenly holds out her arms. For a moment I don’t even know what she means … then I realize and my ears turn warm and I go to her, feeling almost self-conscious.
Her arms wrap around me and my eyes leak hot tears into her shoulder and I exhale as though I’ve been holding my breath for a long time. It must be years since my big sister hugged me. She smells of some Nicole-ish perfume, and her earrings make gentle clinky sounds as she pats my back.
“Make me a coffee,” she says wheedlingly as we draw apart. “Go on.”
“No!” I can’t help erupting with outraged laughter, tears still edging my voice. “I’m not doing it! You’re going to learn!”
It takes over half an hour to teach her. God, she’s frustrating. Her brain just slides away when it sees something it doesn’t like. But at last she’s clutching a latte and looking proudly down at it.
“See?” I say. “And next you can learn how to dehumidify the toaster.”
“Dehumidify the toaster?” echoes Nicole, looking aghast, and I bite my lip, giggling. I’m about to tell her I invented “dehumidify the toaster” to freak her out, when my phone beeps with a text.
Hi. Jake’s in a real mood. What happened? Can you talk now? Leila xxx
All at once my mind is wrenched away from the coffee machine, away from Nicole, away from easy problems like how to clean the milk frother … back to Jake. I see his cold, furious eyes this morning, and my stomach flips with nerves.
Swiftly I type a reply to Leila:
I’ll call in 5 xxx
I send the text, then stare at the screen, feeling daunted. I know what I think should happen. And I want to make it happen. But I can’t do it alone.
“Nicole,” I say at last. “There’s something else.”
“Yeah?” She’s peering at the coffee machine again. “Wait, it does a macchiato?”
“There’s something else I need your help with. Something big.” I wait until she turns, then add, “It’s to do with Jake.”
—
It takes us two days to arrange everything. About half of that is spent explaining it all to Nicole, who starts off by saying, “Honestly, Fixie. Do you have to interfere in everything?”
But then she talks to Leila and sees the TV wrenched off Jake’s wall. Then we have a meeting with Bob in the back room at the shop and he shows us the withdrawals Jake has been making from the company—and even Nicole looks jolted out of her usual bubble.
“But what does he spend it on?” she says, leafing through the printouts that Bob has made for us. “It can’t all have gone on the scam,” she adds with a wince—I’ve already filled her in on that.
“You know.” I shrug. “Jake stuff. Networking. If you asked him, he’d say he was entertaining clients or softening up prospects or something. But you can’t soften up prospects forever. You have to land the deal.”
“And how come Mum let him take out that first loan, anyway?” Nicole lifts her eyes to Bob.
Bob looks around as though to check we’re not being overhead and sips his instant coffee with three sugars. (We have a filter machine, but he prefers instant.)
“Here’s the thing,” he says apologetically. “Your mother’s always had a soft spot for Jake. No one’s perfect, and that’s her foible, and she knows it. She says, ‘Oh, Bob, I shouldn’t,’ but she can’t help herself. She’s bailed him out plenty over the years. I did wonder if you girls knew,” he adds, reaching for a rich tea biscuit. “But I reckon you’re all in the business now, so to speak.”
She’s bailed him out? She’s bailed out Jake?
As I stare at Bob, my head is whirling. I feel a bit weak. All this time, I’ve felt mortified because I was the one who used Mum’s money. I was the one who failed. Jake made me feel guilty and inferior because he’d done everything on his own, with no help, like the business star that he was.
Only he hadn’t, had he? It was all lies.
Or at least … I draw myself up short, thinking furiously, trying to remember. Did anyone ever actually lie to me? Or did I simply assume?
I’m waiting to feel a surge of fury with Mum, but it doesn’t come. I can’t blame her. It’s her money. I can’t even feel angry with Jake. I just feel kind of rueful. Because how much of my life have I spent comparing myself to Jake? And how utterly pointless was that?
“As for your uncle Ned, I reckon Jake pulled the wool over his eyes,” says Bob thoughtfully. “I should think Jake threw his big words around and they drank their gins and Ned didn’t ask any questions. But here’s the thing: If you’re responsible for someone’s money, you’ve got to be able to ask questions. Doesn’t matter if you sound stupid.” His face breaks into a rare smile. “I’m never afraid of sounding stupid. Just ask, is what I say. Can’t hurt to ask.”
“You’re never stupid, Bob,” I say warmly. “You’re a star.”
“Ah well,” says Bob, looking mortified. “That’s going a bit far. Just do the job, is what I do.”
“OK, well, Fixie, you’re right,” says Nicole, putting the printouts down. “As usual.” She shoots me a little grin, and I grin back and decide I won’t mention that she left the kitchen in a total tip this morning.
—
By the following afternoon we’re all set—and at six o’clock we’re waiting on the steps of Grosvenor Heights, all three of us: Leila, Nicole, and me. We’re standing in a row, under the lights of the smart entrance porch, and I’m shivering slightly with cold. Nerves too. Jake’s texted Leila to say he’s on his way ho
me; he shouldn’t be long now. I glance at the others, and Nicole’s jaw is tense. Leila looks, frankly, terrified. But at least she’s going through with it. She’s tougher than she seems, Leila.
And then suddenly there he is, walking toward the building, looking at his phone, and we all stiffen. As he notices us, his face jerks with shock, and his pace speeds up.
“What’s going on?” he demands as he gets near. “Why are you all here? Is it Mum?”
“No,” says Nicole. “It’s you.”
“What?” Jake stares from face to face, his phone dangling from his hand. “What are you talking about?”
Nicole and I glance at Leila and she steps forward, her face trembling but brave. “Jakey, we’re moving out. We’re letting the flat. We can’t afford to live here anymore. We’ll get a good price.”
Jake’s eyes darken. “You have to be kidding. She’s kidding.” He looks at Nicole and me. “She’s gone nuts, right?”
“My dad and I put a new TV on the wall,” Leila presses on resolutely. “A cheap one. It looks OK. The agent’s bringing a professional couple round in an hour. Three more tomorrow. He thinks if we price it right, it’ll go quickly.”
Jake’s face has gone almost rubbery with shock. He stares blankly at Leila, then makes a visible effort to pull himself together.
“This is bollocks,” he says, pushing past her. “Excuse me, could I please get through to my own home?”
“I’ve changed the locks,” Leila calls after him, and Jake slowly wheels round.
“You’ve what?” he says ominously.
“I’ve changed the locks. Just to … to make things clear.”
“You’ve locked me out of my own home? You can’t do that!” he bellows, erupting, and Leila looks like she might collapse.
“Well, she did it,” I say, putting an arm around Leila. “Jake, you can’t go on like this.”
“What the hell are you two doing here, anyway?” He turns on us like a riled tiger.
“We’re moral support,” says Nicole. “ ‘If you want to go fast, go alone,’ ” she adds wisely, glancing at me. “ ‘If you want to go far, go together.’ ”
I Owe You One: A Novel Page 32
