I Owe You One

by Sophie Kinsella

  We all wait for her to finish her sentence—then realize she has finished her sentence.

  “Well,” says Mum, and her cheeks are even rosier. “I have to say, I’m relieved. I don’t want to sell Farrs. It’s a good outfit, though I say so myself.”

  “This is a bird in the hand, though,” says Aunty Karen, picking up the paper and brandishing it. “This is solid cash. Security. If you don’t sell now, you might regret it.”

  “If Mum does sell now, she might regret it,” counters Jake. “You know what I think?” He looks around the table, his face animated. “This is an opportunity to take our small family business to the next level. Turbocharge it. We’ve got the name, the premises, the online presence…I mean, the sky’s the limit. But we need to think big.” He pounds a fist into his palm. “Rebrand. Focus. Maybe we need to hire a consultant. I know some guys; I could bring them in, hear what they have to say. Shall I set that up?”

  I gape at him. How have we got onto hiring a consultant? How much would that cost? And what does that mean anyway, “turbocharge”?

  “Don’t worry about that, Jake,” says Mum in that quiet, firm way of hers. “Just keep the place from falling down while I’m away, and we can think about all your ideas when I get back. Now, let me run through a few stock issues.”

  She starts to talk about suppliers, but I can’t concentrate. I’m suddenly feeling anxious. It’s as though the situation is hitting me properly for the first time. Mum will be away. I’ll be running the shop with Nicole and Jake. How’s that going to work out?

  I half-listen as Mum hands round a list of reminders which she’s handwritten and photocopied. But I’m mostly worrying about Jake. What if he makes some stupid decision and I can’t stop him? I can see Mum glancing at me as though reading my thoughts—and I hastily smile back. My top priority is not worrying her.

  At last we finish, and as we get up from the table, Mum draws me aside. The others have already headed into the kitchen, so we’re alone.

  “Fixie,” she says gently. “Love. I know you’re worried about…” She hesitates. “Well. Let’s say it. Jake.”

  Her words feel like they’re prodding something hidden and sore.

  “You know,” I say, looking away, not wanting to admit the truth. “He’s just a bit…”

  “I know. He gets his exciting ideas into his head, and he can’t be put off. I do understand.” Mum squeezes my arm reassuringly. “But I’m not going to leave you in the lurch. I’ve got a solution for while I’m away which I think will help.”

  “Oh!” I say in huge relief. “Wow. What is it?”

  I should have known Mum would have a plan up her sleeve. Maybe we’ll have daily Skype calls with her in Spain. Or maybe she’s hired some new brilliant member of staff. Or a new computer system that Jake can’t get round.

  “Uncle Ned,” says Mum with a beam.

  My stomach drops like a stone. Uncle Ned? Uncle Ned is the solution?

  “Right,” I manage, in a strangled voice, which Mum takes as a sign of approval.

  “I’ve spoken to him and he’s promised to keep an eye on things while I’m away,” she says happily. “He’s got a good business head. We can trust him.”

  I don’t even know what to say. Uncle Ned?

  “He’s so good to us,” adds Mum fondly. “I know he’ll be a comfort.”

  “He’s not good to me!” I want to wail. “And he won’t be a comfort!”

  “It’s an idea,” I say at last, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “Definitely. But I’m just wondering—is Uncle Ned the right person?”

  “You know how helpful he was over the lease when Dad died,” Mum reminds me. “I’ll feel happier if he’s here to support you.”

  I want to yelp with frustration. OK, maybe he did help with the lease—but that was nine years ago. What’s he done since?

  “I know you don’t like some of the old-fashioned things he says,” adds Mum, pinkening. “And nor do I, for that matter. But he’s family, love, and he cares about Farrs. That’s what counts.”

  There’s a light in her eyes—the determined light that appears when she talks about family. She’s made up her mind. And I can’t say anything to worry her. So I smile my most cheery smile and say, “Well, I’m sure it’ll all work out. The most important thing is that you have a fantastic break. You look so glamorous already!”

  I reach out to touch her dangling, sparkling earrings, incongruous against her graying workaday hair. (Aunty Karen’s hairdresser in Spain has already been booked.)

  “It’s hard to go away and leave you all!” says Mum, with a little laugh, and I can see traces of anxiety appearing in her face. “Harder than I thought. Even now I’m wondering…do I actually want to do this?”

  Oh God. She can’t backtrack now.

  “Yes!” I say firmly. “You do! We’ll be fine.”

  “Just don’t lose the shop, Fixie. Or let the family break up.” Mum gives the same odd little laugh.

  I think she’s only half joking. I think she has secret deep-down worries, like I do. “You’re the glue,” she adds. “You can keep everyone together.”

  I can what? I almost want to laugh, because she’s so wrong. Mum’s the glue of this family. She leads us all. She unites us all. Without her we’re just three disparate siblings.

  But I don’t give away my real thoughts for a nanosecond. I need to bolster up Mum before she decides not to go away after all and do a sixteen-hour shift at the shop instead.

  “Mum, listen,” I say, with as much confidence as I can muster. “When you get back, we’ll be sitting around that very table to celebrate.” I gesture at the gateleg oak table. “The shop will be in great shape. And we’ll be a happy family. I promise.”

  Eight

  After Mum and Aunty Karen have left the next afternoon, everything feels flat. Jake and Leila disappear off to the pub and I decide to make a Bolognese for supper, because that’s what Mum would do. But even as I’m cooking, it isn’t the same. I’m not filling the house with the same magical, Mum-like atmosphere. I don’t feel warm or cozy or reassured.

  To be honest, it’s not just because Mum’s gone that I feel so flat. It’s that I haven’t heard from or seen Ryan since the party. Not a visit, not a phone call, just a single text: Sorry about your mum.

  The day after the party, he went to Sonning to visit his family, and then it was as if he’d disappeared into a black hole. He didn’t reply to any of my texts. A couple of times Jake said, “Ryan says hi,” and that was the sum total of our communication. To be honest, I didn’t mind too much. He wasn’t the priority; Mum was. But now I can’t help thinking: What happened?

  I stare at the pan dispiritedly and give it a stir—then turn it off. I’ll pop out for some ice cream. You can’t go wrong with Ben & Jerry’s when you need a pick-me-up.

  As I’m hurrying along the High Street, I see a guy with frondy hair walking ahead of me, with a brisk determined stride. At once I think, Is that the guy from the coffee shop? Followed by, No, don’t be silly, it can’t be.

  Odd that my mind has instantly gone there, though. And even odder that I’m faintly blushing. What’s that about? I haven’t even thought about him since that day.

  Well, OK, maybe I have, once or twice. Just his eyes. There was something about his eyes. I’ve found myself picturing them now and then—that flecked, leafy green-brown color.

  The man ahead of me stops to consult his phone and I catch sight of his face—and it is him! It’s Sebastian…whatever he’s called. He glances up and sees me approaching—and at once his face creases into a smile of recognition.

  “Oh, hello!” he says.

  “Hi!” I come to a halt. “How are you?” I meet his woodlandy gaze—then quickly look away again before I overdo the eye contact.

  “Good! Just waiting for a cab.”
He gestures at his phone, and I see the map of a cab-company app.

  “Back in Acton!” I say. “Or are you local?”

  “No. I’ve been here for…” He hesitates. “A thing.”

  “Oh, right,” I say politely, because it’s none of my business—and it feels as though the conversation should perhaps end there. But Sebastian’s face is animated; his brow is creasing up; he seems like he wants to share his thoughts.

  “As it happens, I’ve been consulting ‘the skiing workout guru,’ ” he suddenly says, making quote marks with his fingers. “Did you know that the skiing workout guru lives in Acton?”

  “No,” I say, smiling. “I didn’t even know the skiing workout guru existed.” I nearly add, “I’ve never skied in my life,” but I can tell Sebastian is on a roll.

  “Nor did I, till my girlfriend gave me two vouchers for my birthday and insisted I go to see him. So I went. Twice.”

  “Right. And how was he?”

  “Absolute rubbish!” exclaims Sebastian indignantly. “I’m offended by how rubbish he was. I’m shocked!”

  His outrage is so comical, I break into laughter—although I can tell there’s genuine grievance there too.

  “How was he rubbish?” I can’t help asking.

  “The first session, all he did was describe how he won a bronze in Vancouver. Today he described how he just missed a bronze in Sochi. I could have got that off Wikipedia in five minutes, if I were interested, which I’m not.”

  I can’t help laughing again. “What about exercises?”

  “He revealed the insightful information that lunges are a good idea and suggested I come back twice a week for the next six months.”

  “What a rip-off!” I say in heartfelt tones.

  “Exactly!” exclaims Sebastian. “I’m glad you agree. I’m sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.” He glances at the map on his phone and I see an icon of a cab coming up the High Street. “Anyway, enough of that. How’s life been treating you?”

  I open my mouth to say, “Fine,” but it doesn’t seem honest, somehow.

  “Actually, my mum’s been in hospital,” I say instead.

  “Oh no.” He looks up from his phone in dismay. “And here I am going on…Is there anything I can do?”

  This is such a kind, ludicrous instinct that I can’t help smiling again. What on earth could he do?

  “It’s fine. She’s better. She’s off on holiday.”

  “Oh good,” he says—and he really seems to mean it. At that moment a minicab pulls up and he signals to the driver. “This is me,” he says. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Bye,” I say, as he opens the car door. “I’m sorry Acton hasn’t been kind to you. Collapsing ceilings and dodgy workout gurus. We must do better.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it,” he says with a grin. “Acton has a place in my heart.”

  “We do have an amazing Thai restaurant here,” I say. “If you’re into Thai food.”

  “I love Thai food.” His eyes crinkle at me. “Thanks for the tip. Oh, and remember.” He pauses, his hand on the car door. “I still owe you one. I’m serious. You haven’t forgotten?”

  “Of course not!” I say. “How could I?”

  I watch as the cab drives off, still smiling at his good-humored outrage—then head on my way.

  * * *

  —

  The little exchange has buoyed my spirits, but as I get back to the house I start to feel flat again. I reheat the pasta sauce, inhaling the delicious scent, then put on The Archers, because that’s what Mum would do too—but it feels fake. I don’t listen to The Archers, so I don’t know who any of the characters are.

  “Hey, Fixie.” Nicole wanders into the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts. I’m hoping she’s going to offer to help, but she doesn’t even seem to have noticed that I’m cooking. She leans against the counter, picks up the chunk of Parmesan I was about to grate, and starts to nibble it. “So I’ve had a great idea,” she says thoughtfully. “I think we should have yoga at the shop.”

  “Yoga?” I echo. “What do you mean? Like…a yoga section?”

  “Yoga sessions,” she says, as though it’s obvious. “We should run sessions in the evenings. I could do them.”

  I put my wooden spoon down on Mum’s bunny-rabbit ceramic spoon rest (£6.99, bestseller at Easter) and peer at her to see if she’s joking. But she meets my gaze with a full-on Nicole-taking-herself-seriously expression. The thing about Nicole is, she’s all vague and wafty until she wants something, whereupon she can suddenly become quite gimlety and focused.

  “Nicole, we’re a shop,” I say carefully. “We sell saucepans. We don’t do yoga.”

  “We have the Cake Club,” she counters.

  “Yes, but that’s a selling event. We sell cake tins and stuff. It enhances our business.”

  “Loads of shops do all sorts of evening events,” she responds. “It would build up the clientele.”

  “But where?”

  I’m picturing the shop, trying to imagine even two people putting down yoga mats, and I’m failing.

  “We’d have to move a few things,” she says breezily. “Get rid of a couple of displays.”

  “Every night? And then put them back?”

  “Of course not!” She rolls her eyes. “Permanently. There’s too much stock, anyway. Even Mum says so. It’s overcrowded.”

  “We can’t get rid of whole displays of stock to make space for yoga lessons!” I say in horror.

  “Well, that’s your opinion,” says Nicole calmly.

  “What about the cleaners? They start at six P.M. When would they get in?”

  Nicole stares at me blankly as though she never even realized the shop gets cleaned every night.

  Oh my God. She didn’t realize the shop gets cleaned, did she? She lives on another planet.

  “We’d sort it,” she says at last with a shrug. “Like we do on Cake Club night.”

  “OK,” I say, trying to be positive. “Well, would you sell any stock?”

  “We’d be doing yoga,” says Nicole, frowning. “Not selling things.”

  “But—”

  “You’re trying to find problems, Fixie,” she adds.

  “So Mum only left, what”—I look at my watch—“four hours ago. And already you want to change things.”

  “You should be more open-minded!” retaliates Nicole. “I bet if I rang Mum now, she’d love the idea.”

  “She would not!” I say hotly. I feel so sure of myself, I almost want to dial Mum’s number and prove it. But of course I won’t.

  “You should do yoga yourself.” Nicole eyes me dispassionately. “Your breathing is really shallow. Look.” She points at my chest. “It’s stressing you out.”

  I want to retort, “It’s not my breathing that’s stressing me out!” But the thought of Mum stops me. She’d be really upset to think that within hours of her departure, we were arguing about the shop. So somehow I force myself to take a deep breath.

  “Well, this is what the family meetings are for,” I say as reasonably as I can. “We’ll put it on the agenda and discuss it.”

  Uncle Ned and Jake will never go for yoga classes. It’ll all be fine.

  “Could you do the spaghetti?” I add, and Nicole replies, “Sure,” in an absent tone. She wanders to the larder, now engrossed in her phone, gets out the spaghetti packet, and stands motionless for a bit while I count out forks.

  “Nicole?” I prompt her.

  “Oh. Yeah.” She gets out a saucepan and puts it on the hob, then peers at the spaghetti. “How much, do you think?”

  “Well, there’s going to be four of us.”

  “Right,” says Nicole, still peering at the packet. “The thing is, I never know with spaghetti.”

  “Well, you know. I
t’s basically a clump for each person.”

  I text Leila—Supper in about 10—and lay out water glasses. Then I glance at Nicole. She’s taken out a bunch of spaghetti and is looking at it, her brow wrinkled. For God’s sake. She hasn’t even put the water on.

  I fill the pan with water, add salt, whack up the heat on the hob, and take the spaghetti from Nicole’s hands.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. “You know we’ve actually got a spaghetti measurer? You know we stock them in the shop?”

  I show her the spoon with the special hole in it, and she opens her eyes wide and says, “No way. I never knew that was for measuring spaghetti! You’re so good at all that, Fixie.”

  As I start to measure out the spaghetti into the boiling water, she wafts out of the kitchen without asking if she can do anything else to help, bumping into Leila on the way.

  “Fixie!” says Leila in excitement. “Guess who’s here.” She hurries forward and smooths down my hair, then produces a lip gloss from nowhere and slicks it across my lips.

  “Huh?” I stare at her in puzzlement.

  “Ryan!” she whispers.

  “What?” I feel my eyes widen. But before I can say anything else, I hear Jake saying, “Come on in, we’ll have some grub.” And I force myself to leave it a full five seconds before I swivel round to see Ryan. Here. In our kitchen.

  He’s as tall and blond and dazzling as ever. His easy smile has gone, though. His face is tired-looking and there’s a crease in his brow.

  “Hi, Fixie,” he says vacantly. “All right?”

  “Here.” Jake is already pouring him a glass of wine. “Drown your sorrows, mate. Ryan’s eating with us,” he adds to me.

  “Right,” I manage. “Lovely!”

  My stomach is flipping over. My thoughts are on a circular loop: He’s here! Where’s he been? Why does he look so down? Why hasn’t he texted? Is he with someone else? He’s here!

  “I hope you like spaghetti,” I say in bright, fake tones.

  “Yeah,” Ryan says, and takes a gulp of wine. “Great.” He stares into the distance for a moment or two, then seems to see me for the first time. “Hey. Let me say hello properly.”