I Owe You One

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Yes,” he says after a pause. “Her name’s—”

  “I know her name,” I interrupt triumphantly. “I overheard it in the coffee shop. It’s…Wait…” I pause, closing my eyes for a few seconds, letting the music thump through me. “Whiny.”

  OK, that came out wrong.

  “Not Whiny,” I say after a moment’s thought. “It’s something else.”

  “Briony,” corrects Seb, his mouth twitching again.

  “Briony.” I nod about fifteen times. “Yes. Sorry. Briony.” I think for a moment, then add, “You could call her Shouty.”

  “What?” Seb stares at me.

  “I saw her having a go at you earlier.” I wrinkle my nose. “She looked like…” Suddenly it comes to me. “Yes! She looked like a mean newsreader.” I put on an exaggerated TV voice. “ ‘Hello. This is the Mean News. You’re all rubbish and I despise you.’ ” I come to a finish and blink at him. “Sorry,” I add, as Seb opens his mouth. “I’m very sorry. That’s awful. I take it back. I shouldn’t be rude about your girlfriend. She’s probably really nice.”

  “No,” says Seb evenly. “You shouldn’t be rude about my girlfriend.”

  I swig my drink thoughtfully, then beckon him to lean closer and whisper confidingly in his ear, “She’s not nice, though, is she?”

  “Are we really going to start assessing each other’s love choices?” says Seb tightly. “Is that a game you really want to play?”

  “Why not?” I shoot back.

  “Fine!” Seb’s voice rises with heat. “At least I didn’t harness my heart to a bloody con man. At least I’m not a gullible mug, making excuses for a total dickhead because I had a crush on him at school.”

  “What?” I gasp so forcefully, I nearly totter over. “How did you know that?”

  “You said you’ve known him since you were ten,” says Seb, shrugging. “Lucky guess.”

  I feel a spike of resentment. I should never have given away even a morsel of information to this guy. I take a sip of cocktail, swill it round my mouth, and swallow it. Then I glare at him with all the venom I can muster.

  “I thought you were polite,” I say in icy tones. “I was clearly misinformed.”

  “I can be polite.” Now he looks amused. “When I want to be.”

  “And by the way, I’m not gullible, I’m trusting.” I wave my glass vigorously at him for emphasis, spilling a few drops. “Trusting.”

  “D’you want to dance?” His words take me by surprise, and I stare at him blankly, wondering if I heard right.

  “Dance?” I echo at last. “You mean…dance?”

  “I like dancing. D’you want to dance?”

  “With you?” I peer at him.

  “Yes,” he says, with elaborate patience. “With me.”

  “Oh.” I take another sip, thinking about it. “No. I don’t.”

  That’ll teach him.

  Although, actually, I like dancing too. And this relentless thumping beat is kind of infectious.

  “You don’t,” says Seb after a pause.

  “No,” I say, a little defiantly. “I don’t.”

  He’s taller than me and as I gaze up at him, the lights seem to halo round his head. His hair is shiny and his cheekbones are gleaming and his eyes are locked on mine in a way that’s kind of disconcerting.

  I tell myself to look away, but the truth is, I don’t want to look away. I want to be drawn into his gaze.

  Which is dumb. And wrong. He belongs to another woman, I remind myself sternly. He likes whiny, shouty, newsreadery-type women.

  “But you owe me one,” he says, and pulls the coffee sleeve out of his jacket pocket. He flicks it thoughtfully a couple of times, then proffers it. “See?”

  I glance dismissively at my own writing. “That doesn’t say anything about dancing.”

  “Maybe dancing is what I want.” His eyes are still fixed on mine. “Maybe it’s all I want.”

  “That’s all you want.” I force a skeptical tone. “A dance.”

  The music is thudding through my bones. My blood is pulsing. My feet are twitching. The more we talk about dancing, the more I want to dance.

  “That’s what I want,” says Seb, and there’s something about his voice and the way he’s looking at me that sends a sudden tremor through me.

  “Fine,” I say at last, as though bestowing the hugest favor on him. “Fine.”

  I follow him to the dance floor and we start to move. We don’t say a word. We don’t smile or even look at anyone else. Our eyes are locked on each other and our bodies seem naturally in synch from the minute we start.

  I mean, here’s the thing. He can dance.

  Song blends into song and still we keep on dancing. Lights are playing over us, turning Seb’s face into a multicolored whirl. The constant thump feels like a heartbeat. Jake and Leila come onto the dance floor and I glance over briefly, nodding hello, but I can’t disengage. I can’t shake the spell of dancing with Seb.

  The longer I dance, the more I’m transfixed by him, by the intensity of his eyes, by the hint of his body under his shirt as he moves. He’s fluid and grounded all at once. Strong and lithe but not pumped up, not an extrovert, not constantly glancing around for approval like Ryan would be. Seb is focused. He’s honest. Everything he does seems natural, even the way he wipes the sweat off his brow.

  I wipe my own face, mirroring his action. It is hot. We’re dancing to Calvin Harris now and I’m reflexively mouthing, How deep is your love, over and over along with the song. I can’t stop moving, I can’t stop responding to the music, but at the same time I’m aware of something that’s not quite right. The colors are blurring even more than they were before. I’m feeling pretty dizzy. I feel…not sick, exactly, but…

  My stomach gives a heave. OK, I definitely feel weird.

  I try to anchor myself by gazing at Seb’s face, but it’s splintering like a kaleidoscope. And my stomach is protesting about something—did I eat some bad food earlier? Why do I feel so—

  Oh God.

  OK, really not feeling good.

  Although…does it matter?

  My legs suddenly seem to be giving way beneath me, but then I don’t mind lying on the dance floor. I’m not fussy. I feel quite blissful, really, lying here under the lights. Leila’s face looms above me and I give her a beatific smile.

  “Happy birthday,” I say, but she doesn’t seem to understand.

  “Fixie! Oh my God, look at you!”

  “Hi!” I try to wave cheerfully but my hand isn’t working.

  Where is my hand? Oh my God, someone stole my hand.

  “I don’t know!” I hear Seb’s voice above me. “She was fine. I mean, obviously she’d had a few—”

  “Fixie!” Leila seems to be shouting from a great distance. “Fixie, are you OK? How many cocktails did you— Oh God, Jake? Jakey? I need some help here….”

  * * *

  —

  If there’s anything worse than waking up to a hangover, it’s waking up to a hangover at your brother’s flat and hearing how you ruined his girlfriend’s birthday and embarrassed him in front of all his friends.

  My head is crashing with pain, but I can’t even take a paracetamol until Jake has stopped his tirade. Eventually he snaps, “I’ve got a meeting to go to,” as though that’s my fault too, and strides out.

  “Oh, Fixie,” says Leila, giving me a glass of water and two tablets. “Don’t listen to Jake. It was quite funny, actually. D’you want some coffee?”

  I totter into the living room, sink into the leather sofa (the Conran Shop one? I have no idea), and stare blankly at the massive TV screen which Jake bought last year. This whole flat is glossy and modern, with hi-tech everything. It’s in a block called Grosvenor Heights in Shepherd’s Bush (he calls it “West Holland Park
”). Jake offered on it as soon as he’d landed his nude-knickers deal, and I’m sure he chose it because the word Grosvenor sounds posh.

  Leila brings me in a cup of coffee, sits down next to me in her silky kimono, and starts opening birthday cards with her sharp nails.

  “It was a fun evening, though, wasn’t it?” she says in her gentle voice. “Jakey spoils me, he really does. Those cocktails were lush.”

  “Don’t talk about cocktails.” I wince.

  “Sorry.” She laughs her rippling laugh, then puts down the card she’s holding and gives me an interested look.

  “Who was the man?”

  “The man?” I try to look blank.

  “The man, silly! The one you were dancing with all that time. He’s nice.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Handsome.”

  “Well, he’s taken,” I say quickly, before she gets any ideas.

  He was carrying the coffee sleeve in his pocket, a small voice in my head points out.

  But another one instantly answers: So what? He was there with his girlfriend.

  “Oh.” Leila deflates. “Shame. Well, he was very concerned about you. He wanted to come and make sure you were all right, but we said don’t worry, we’re family, we’ll look after her.”

  The way she says, “We’re family,” gets under my skin and makes me blink. I love Leila. She is family.

  “Oh, Leila.” Impulsively, I throw my arms around her. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I spoiled everything.”

  “You didn’t!” She hugs me back with her bony arms. “If I blame anyone, it’s Ryan. I said to Jakey, ‘No wonder! I’d be in a state too if the love of my life disappeared like that!’ ”

  “Ryan’s not the love of my life,” I say firmly. “He’s really not.”

  “He’ll be back,” says Leila wisely, and pats my knee.

  I have to get it into Leila’s head that I don’t want Ryan back. But I’ll leave that for another time. I sink onto the buttery leather, cradling my coffee, and watch in a slight trance as Leila slits open each envelope, smiles at the card, puts it down, and reaches for the next one.

  “Oh,” she says suddenly. “That reminds me. He left this for you.”

  “Who?”

  The man, silly!”

  She hands me a 6 Folds Place envelope and I stare at it blankly. There’s the sound of a timer from the kitchen, and Leila gets to her feet.

  “That’s my egg,” she says. “D’you want an egg, Fixie?”

  “No,” I say hurriedly, my stomach heaving at the thought. “Thanks, though.”

  As she leaves the room, I slowly open the envelope. There’s no note inside, just the coffee sleeve. I pull it out and stare at it. It’s been written on, in Seb’s writing:

  Paid in full. With thanks.

  And, underneath, his signature.

  As I read his words, I feel a deep wrench of—what, exactly? I’m not sure. Wistfulness? Longing? My brain keeps flashing back to dancing with him last night. The lights playing over his face; the pounding music. His eyes on mine. The connection we had. I want somehow to go back there, to that place, to him.

  But let’s get real. That’s never going to happen.

  Giving myself a mental shakedown, I slide the coffee sleeve back into the envelope. It’s a souvenir, I tell myself as I fold down the flap. A fun memento. I’ll never see him again and he’ll probably marry Whiny and that’s…you know. Fine. His choice.

  “Is it something interesting?” says Leila, coming back in with her egg and looking at the envelope.

  “No.” I shake my head with a wry smile.

  “Shall I chuck it for you, then?” she says helpfully.

  She holds out her hand, and before I can stop myself I exclaim sharply, “No!”

  My fingers have tightened around it. I’m not giving it up. I’m not throwing it away. Even if that doesn’t make any sense.

  “I mean…don’t worry,” I add, seeing Leila’s taken-aback expression. “I think I’ll hold on to it. Just in case. You know.”

  “Of course!” says Leila in her easy, unquestioning way. “Come on, share my egg with me, Fixie,” she says cozily, sitting back down beside me. “You need some food inside you. And then…” Her eyes sparkle at me. “Then we’ll do your nails.”

  Fourteen

  Hannah’s house is like a John Lewis catalog. All the furniture is from John Lewis, plus most of the curtains and cushions. Her wedding list was half at John Lewis and half at Farrs, and, actually, all the things blend together pretty well. They’re good quality, nothing too way out…all very tasteful.

  And usually I think Hannah’s house represents her perfectly. John Lewis is such a calm, reassuring place, and Hannah’s such a calm, reassuring person. But the Hannah in front of me now is totally different. She’s on edge. Her brows are knitted. She’s pacing around her tidy white kitchen, nibbling on a carrot stick.

  “He doesn’t want to know,” she’s saying. “He doesn’t want to know. I’ve tried talking to him, but it’s like he just doesn’t want to know.”

  “Hannah, why don’t you sit down?” I say, because she’s a bit unnerving, pacing around like that. But she doesn’t even seem to hear me. She’s lost in her own thoughts.

  “I mean, what happened to ‘for the procreation of children and their nurture’?” she suddenly says. “What happened to that?”

  “Huh?” I stare at her.

  “It’s from our wedding!” she says impatiently. “Marriage is, quote, ‘for the procreation of children and their nurture.’ I said that to Tim. I said, ‘Weren’t you listening to that bit, Tim?’ ”

  “You quoted your wedding vows?” I say in disbelief.

  “I have to get through to him somehow! What’s wrong with him?” Hannah finally sinks down at the kitchen table. “Tell me again what he said.”

  “He said he’s stressed out by it all,” I say warily. “He seemed a bit overwhelmed. He said having a baby was going to be…er…”

  Do not say “a nightmare.”

  “What?” demands Hannah.

  “Tough,” I say after a pause. “He thought it was going to be tough.”

  “Well, it will be, I guess,” says Hannah, sounding upset. “But won’t it be worth it?”

  “Er…I suppose so.” I bite my lip, remembering Tim’s beleaguered look. “By the way, what’s Le Mahs?”

  “What?”

  “Le Mahs. Or La Mars.”

  “Oh, Lamaze,” says Hannah. “It’s, like, a baby system. There are Lamaze births, Lamaze toys…”

  “Right. And who’s Annabel Karmel?”

  “She’s the baby-puree guru,” says Hannah at once. “You need to start at six months. Ice-cube trays.”

  OK, the gibberish has started again. Ice-cube trays? What’s she on about?

  “Hannah,” I say carefully. “You’re not even pregnant. Why are you talking about what happens when the baby’s six months old?”

  “I’m thinking ahead,” she says, as though it’s perfectly obvious. “You have to be prepared.”

  “You don’t have to be that prepared. Shouldn’t you cross each bridge as you come to it?”

  “No.” Hannah shakes her head adamantly. “You have to plan. You have to research. You have to start your to-do lists.”

  To-do lists? Plural?

  “How many lists do you have?” I ask lightly.

  “Seven.”

  “Seven?” I drop my coffee mug down on the table with a crash. “Hannah, you cannot have seven to-do lists for a baby that hasn’t been conceived yet! It’s insane!”

  “It’s not insane!” she says defensively. “You know I like to get everything in order.”

  “Show them to me,” I demand. “I want to see.”

  “Fine,” says Hannah, after a pause. “Th
ey’re upstairs.”

  I follow her upstairs, along her immaculate landing, to the room that I’ve always assumed will be the nursery. We enter, and my hand goes to my mouth. Oh my God.

  It looks like the control center of some crime inquiry. There’s a massive pinboard on the wall, covered with file cards on which I see phrases like Research baby yoga and Second name if it’s a boy and Investigate epidural risks. Next to it are blu-tacked three dense typed-out lists, the first headed, Postpartum—to-do, the second, Education—to-do, the third, Health checks/issues—to-do.

  “I mean, the main lists are on the computer,” says Hannah as she switches on the light. “This is extra stuff.”

  “The main lists are…on the computer?” I echo faintly.

  No wonder Tim feels overwhelmed. I feel overwhelmed. I don’t know anything about having babies, but this can’t be right.

  “Hannah,” I begin—then stop, because I don’t know how to proceed. “Hannah…Why?”

  “Why what?” she retorts in a snappy way that isn’t her, and I know that at last I’ve got under her skin. I take her hands and hold them firmly in mine, waiting until she meets my eye. She looks tired. And stressed. My strong, calm, super-brain friend looks vulnerable, I realize. When did she last laugh?

  “Have you made to-do lists for up until the baby leaves home?” I say in gentle, teasing tones. “Have you worked out every family holiday you’ll take?” I give a sudden overdramatic gasp. “Oh my God, where will you hold its eighteenth-birthday party? Quick! Let’s google venues!”

  A tinge of color comes to Hannah’s cheeks.

  “You know I like breaking things down into tasks,” she mutters.

  “I know you do.” I nod. “You’re kind of addicted to it.”

  “I’m not addicted.” Hannah looks scandalized at the word. I can practically see her thoughts: I’m a professional woman with furniture from John Lewis! How can I be an addict?

  “You kind of are,” I say, undeterred. “And this is not good for you. It’s not good for Tim.” I let go of her hands as I gesture around. “And it’s certainly not good for the baby, because at this rate, the baby’s never going to get born!”