I Owe You One

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Good,” he says, but his voice is tight and when I glance at him, his face is studiously blank.

  I can feel the tension between us rising again, and I need to burst it, because what’s happened with Jake and me and the whole family is good. It’s good.

  “People can change, you know,” I say, slightly more passionately than I intended, and I see Seb’s jawline twitch, as though this isn’t something he wants to hear. But at last he turns his head to look at me, his face pink and blue from the glow of the nearby Christmas lights.

  “I’m sure. And I’m glad for you.” His face creases with some emotion I can’t read, and for an instant his eyes seem to shimmer again. “You’re…you’re quite a woman.” He takes hold of my hands and squeezes them, and I stare back breathlessly, my eyes hot again too. I can’t help it—I’m lost in his gaze.

  Then the carol-singing stops and ragged applause breaks out and we both seem to snap back into reality.

  “So.” Seb gives me a wry smile and releases my hands, and suddenly I can’t bear being near him anymore. I can’t bear seeing his generous, brave face, his woodland eyes, his everything…and knowing that they can’t be mine.

  “So,” I say, my voice a bit gruff. “Actually, I do have some things to get done. I ought to—”

  “Of course,” says Seb at once, his tone more formal, and he actually takes a step back, as though wanting to put space between us. “Of course. You’ve done far too much. Thank you a thousand times.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing.” He shakes his head. “You’ve…I don’t think I’d realized…” He meets my eyes frankly. “I can go forward now.”

  “Well, good. That’s all I wanted.” I smile brightly, trying to mask the pain which I can feel coming for me like a tsunami. “Good luck with everything. With Briony, and life, and…everything.”

  There’s only so long you can smile brightly at the man who has your heart but loves someone else. Already my mouth is starting to tremble.

  “So…goodbye,” I say, and I’m making to leave when Seb calls out, “Wait!”

  I look back and he’s reaching into his pocket and somehow I’m not surprised when he produces the coffee sleeve.

  I take a step back toward him and we stand there in the street, the two of us gazing at it. The original IOU. It’s crumpled and creased now, the writing indistinct and blurred in places where we spilled wine on it in bed, and I have a sudden memory of him giving it to me in the first place.

  “Stupid thing.” I try to laugh.

  “Yes.” Seb nods, suddenly grave. “It is. Because if I really wrote down all the reasons I owe you, it would fill a book.”

  His words take me by surprise, and for a moment I can’t answer.

  “No, it wouldn’t.” I say at last, trying to be flippant but not really succeeding.

  “It would. You know it would.”

  “Well…me too.” My throat is tight. “I owe you too.”

  “But we’re not keeping score anymore.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  I take the coffee sleeve from him and look at our melded scrawled writings, feeling such pangs of loss I can’t bear it. Then, on impulse, I start to rip. Once through. Twice through. I need quite a lot of force to tear the cardboard—it’s stronger than it looks—but at last it’s in pieces and I look up.

  “We’re done,” I say, and Seb nods, with such a wry, sad expression I want to cry again, but I mustn’t.

  “Done,” he echoes.

  I run my gaze over his face one last time. Then I take a deep breath as though plunging underwater, turn, and walk swiftly away, dumping the pieces in a recycling bin as I go.

  Twenty-Six

  Sometimes life gives you what you need. Sometimes it gives you what you don’t need. What I really don’t need in my life right now is Ryan Chalker—but as soon as I get within view of Farrs, I see him, standing on the pavement, talking to Jake.

  Great. Just bloody…great.

  I’m feeling so sore right now, I can barely face anyone, let alone him. But I can’t run away; I need to get into the shop. Which means I’m forced to approach him, with my chin as stiff as possible, wishing my face wasn’t all blotchy from wiping away tears but equally thinking: So I’ve got a blotchy face, so what, it’s my face, fuck off.

  I’m braced for him to say something offensive—but to my surprise, as I get near them, he seems to be arguing with Jake.

  “Not happening,” Jake is saying. “No. I’m working.” He gestures at his Gingerbread Man suit.

  “It’s two days!” Ryan says dismissively. “You can easily take two days off, the flights are, like, nothing, and we’ll have a blast. You and me, partying like the old days. Drinks on me,” he adds with a twinkle.

  Ryan is as cajoling as I’ve ever seen him, and for an instant I see Jake waver. I see him weaken. I see the old appetite growing in his face.

  But then it closes up.

  “I’m working,” he repeats doggedly. “And I can’t afford a trip to Prague. So as I say, it’s not happening.”

  “For God’s sake, Jake! What happened to you? Hi, Fixie,” Ryan adds brazenly, as though the last time we saw each other I wasn’t quite literally sweeping him out of the house.

  “Nothing happened,” says Jake evenly. “But my priority right now is work.”

  “Work!” Ryan gives a scornful laugh, which makes me cringe. “What, dressing up as a gingerbread man? Do you know how tragic you look, mate?”

  I stare at him, incensed. How dare he come around and insult my family?

  “Shouldn’t you be getting back to Hollywood now, Ryan?” I say sweetly. “Doesn’t Tom Cruise want to have lunch with you at Nobu?” Ryan shoots me a look of dislike and I gaze coolly back. “You’re cluttering the pavement. So either come in and buy something or move along.”

  “Yes, just go,” says Jake. “Go, Ryan. We’ve had enough of you.”

  “Oh, you’ve had enough of me!” Ryan retorts at once, with another scornful laugh.

  “Yes,” says Jake steadfastly. “We have.”

  In silence, Ryan looks from Jake’s face to mine and back again. I’ve never felt such solidarity with my brother. Ryan’s eyes flicker uncertainly as he surveys us, and just for an instant I feel sorry for him. Just an instant.

  “Well, fuck off, then,” he snarls at last, then turns and strides away.

  “Merry Christmas!” Jake calls after him. “I hope Santa’s good to you!”

  “Santa will not be good to him,” I say, and I start giggling uncontrollably, letting out some of my painful tension. “Are you kidding? Santa will give him a turnip and a lump of coal.”

  “He doesn’t even deserve a turnip. Remember one year Dad put a turnip in my stocking?” Jake suddenly adds reminiscently. “When I was about eleven. He thought I needed a fright. The toys were in the corner of the room and I didn’t see them at first—so I thought that was it. A turnip.”

  “I don’t remember that.” I stare at him incredulously. “Did you get a fright?”

  “Oh yeah.” Jake grins. “I nearly had a heart attack. Dad thought it’d make me calm down a bit.” He pauses, then adds with a kind of rueful glint in his eye, “Guess a turnip wasn’t enough. I was still a little bastard.”

  “You weren’t so bad,” I say easily.

  “Oh, I was. I was a toe-rag. That day I laid into you about your skating? That was pretty low.” He hesitates. “But, I mean, you were about to give up anyway, weren’t you?”

  I’m so stunned I can’t respond at once. I was about to give up? Is that how he’s rationalized it all this time? Does he have any idea…? My chest is burning with all the things I could say, all the accusations I could hurl at him.

  But then…why would I? It’s don
e. It happened. What are we going to do, start a tally of who did what when?

  “Oh well,” I manage. “Think how much worse you could have been.” And Jake smiles at me in the way he often does these days—as though he’s consciously trying to get on with his family, he only needs a bit of practice. Then he turns to look down the street, where Ryan is still just about visible.

  “He’s an arse,” he says matter-of-factly, and I nod.

  “You got rid of him, anyway.”

  There’s silence as we both watch Ryan finally disappear from view. Ryan, who blinded both of us with his dazzle, who led us both astray. I’m sure both of us are rewinding our lives and thinking how they might have been different with no Ryan Chalker in them.

  But what can you do about mistakes except think, Won’t do that again, and move forward?

  “I wonder what Dad would think of us,” says Jake, breaking the silence. “Now. If he could see us.”

  His voice is casual, but his eyes seem to have a genuine question in them. As if it matters.

  Well, of course it matters. Jake always cared desperately what Dad thought of him, even when he was yelling. We all did.

  “I hope he’d realize we’re doing our best,” I say, after a moment’s thought. On a whim I look up at the sky and call out softly, “Dad, we’re doing our best, OK?”

  “He says, ‘No you’re not, the stock room’s a mess, and what’s happened to the licorice allsorts?’ ” shoots back Jake, deadpan, and I burst into a giggle.

  “I have to go,” I say. “The stock room is a mess.”

  “Hannah’s in there, by the way,” says Jake, jerking his head toward the shop. “Christmas shopping.”

  I feel a sudden swell of love for Hannah. She’s the most loyal friend in the world. All her family must be sick to death of Farrs stock, but she supports us every year. She even schedules a Farrs shopping session on her calendar.

  “Thanks,” I say, and squeeze him on the arm. “Don’t get too cold out here.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” says Jake, and brandishes his stack of flyers. “Come on in!” he resumes shouting, winking at me. “Gingerbread houses at Farrs! Christmas decorations at Farrs! Ho ho ho!”

  Inside the shop, I find Hannah loading up her basket with ceramic rolling pins decorated with gingerbread men.

  “I’m on the waiting list for one of those mixing bowls,” she greets me without any preamble. “Morag says they’ll be in tomorrow?”

  She looks radiant these days, even though she’s not pregnant yet (I’ll be first to know, after her mum and Tim). She and Tim have “started again”—her words—and they’re really blissful and she’s thrown away all her to-do lists.

  Or at least put them away somewhere secret. She’s a bit cagey on that point.

  “So where were you?” she asks now. “Jake said you rushed off somewhere.”

  For a few moments I can’t reply. I will tell her everything, of course I will—but not in this bright bustle of Christmas cheer.

  “Just…something,” I say. “I was with Seb.”

  “Seb?” Her eyes light up questioningly and I shake my head.

  “No. No. Not that. Tell you later. So what else do you need?” I force a bright Christmas-shopping manner. And she’s just showing me the list on her phone, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “Hey, Fixie, you dropped this.” It’s Jake in his gingerbread outfit, holding out my scarf.

  “Oh, thanks,” I say as I wind it back around my neck. “I guess I was distracted by Ryan.”

  “Ryan?” says Hannah, looking scandalized. “Was that him outside? I thought I saw him, but then I thought, No, that can’t be him, he wouldn’t dare….”

  “He has no shame,” I say. “None.”

  “He’s an arse,” Jake repeats firmly. “You know, Fixie, I meant to tell you, and you really won’t believe this, he actually went and asked your guy for money.”

  “What?” I say, frowning, not quite following.

  “You know, what’s-his-name. Seb. Ryan went to his office and tried to get him to invest in some scheme or other. The guy who fired him. Can you believe it?”

  “The nerve of him!” exclaims Hannah. “You know, I think he has a chip missing. It’s the only explanation.”

  Something weird is buzzing in my head. This doesn’t make sense. Ryan went to see Seb? Why didn’t Seb ever mention it?

  “I’m sorry,” I say, sounding brusque in my need to get this clear. “I’m sorry, explain again, what did Ryan do? When was this?”

  “About three weeks ago?” says Jake, creasing his brow in thought. Then his eyes widen. “I know exactly. It was the day after he spent the night at ours. He went there first thing in the morning. He wanted me to come too, but I said not a chance. I knew Seb would throw him out.”

  Ryan went to see Seb. But Seb never mentioned it to me. Why?

  Because he thought I knew already?

  But why—

  Hang on. Oh God. No. No. Seb’s prickliness…Seb’s hurt, scorched eyes…

  My head is churning. The pieces are slotting together, and they’re terrible, disastrous pieces. Ryan went to see Seb just before I did. He asked him for money. So did Seb think…? My stomach heaves in horror. Did Seb think that when I came and asked him for money it was for Ryan?

  No. He couldn’t have, surely?

  I flash back to Seb’s tight, strained face. His expression today when he asked how the “unconditional love” was going. And now I feel almost faint. It’s obvious. Seb thinks I went back to Ryan. He thinks I love Ryan. I can hear my own blithe voice in his office: “If you really love someone, you don’t just shove cash at them. You help them become the person they’re meant to be.” Seb had no idea I meant Jake. I’d never told him Jake was in debt. So he thought—

  But how could he ever believe I’d go back to Ryan? How?

  “Fixie, are you OK?” Hannah is peering at me.

  “I…Maybe I need a cup of tea,” I falter.

  “You look shocking,” says Jake bluntly. “I’d have a whiskey.”

  “OK, come on.” Hannah grasps my arm and leads me to the back room. Nicole is in there, unpacking a box of Christmas decorations, and she looks up in surprise to see us. Hannah shuts the door and flips on the kettle, then says, “Fixie, I know you’re in a state, and you don’t have to tell us everything, but—”

  “The coffee sleeve,” I interrupt her in a despairing gasp, because it’s come to me, in a final, horrible burst of comprehension. That’s how.

  I remember registering the coffee sleeve in Seb’s office that awful day and not quite understanding why it was there. I’d thought it was in my tote bag. It seemed a bit weird.

  I brushed it away at the time; it felt like an unimportant detail. But it’s the key to everything. Ryan must have taken it. Used it. Brandished it at Seb. God alone knows what lies he told—but whatever he said, it convinced Seb that we were together again.

  Blood is pulsing through my ears as I imagine Ryan, the practiced pathological liar, spinning some vile story. I recall his easy voice that morning: “Oh, I took some chewing gum out of your bag. You don’t mind, do you?” But chewing gum wasn’t the only thing he took.

  He is a toxic, terrible, bad, bad man. I’m shaking all over, with rage at Ryan, rage at myself….

  “Fixie?” Hannah has knelt down before me and taken my hands. “Fixie, we’re getting worried here. What’s happened?”

  I look at her kind, familiar face and I can’t be strong anymore. I know we’re busy on the shop floor. I know it’s five days till Christmas. I know I should put this aside for now. But it’s too big. It’s burning a hole in me.

  So I take a deep breath and I tell her and Nicole everything. I start right from the beginning, right from that first meeting in the coffee shop, although they already kno
w some of it. Because that way I feel like I’m in control of something, even if it’s just my own story.

  It takes a while and they listen in pin-drop silence. When I get to my new theory about Ryan, they both exclaim, “No!” in simultaneous horror, and I half-smile, despite everything.

  “So what do you do now?” says Hannah, who is always practical and forward-looking and has already got a pen out of her bag.

  “Tell him,” says Nicole.

  “You have to tell him,” agrees Hannah.

  “Go and see him—”

  “Explain there’s been a misunderstanding—”

  “But he’s taken!” I say despairingly. “He’s with someone! I don’t take other women’s men, I just don’t. It’s the rule. It’s the sisterhood.”

  There’s silence and I sip my cup of tea, which has gone lukewarm but is still comforting.

  “I mean, what if the other woman is a total bitch?” says Hannah at last, casually. “Because then I think that rule doesn’t apply.”

  “She’s not a bitch.” I can’t believe I’m coming to the defense of Whiny, but there you go. “At least, she’s not terrible. She’s bright and she makes him laugh and they go skiing together….”

  “Oh, well, skiing,” says Hannah sardonically. “Fixie, anyone can ski with someone! You and Seb, you have something amazing. And you can’t let it slip away.”

  “I don’t know.” I try to imagine calling up Seb, broaching the subject…and I quail. What if I’m wrong? What if there’s a million other reasons he doesn’t want to be with me?

  “I need to get back to work.” I change the subject. “It’s not fair on the others. Friday afternoons always get frantic.”

  “OK,” says Hannah, rising to her feet. “But you have to do something.”

  “Maybe.” I bite my lip. “I dunno. I need to think. Really think.”

  “All right, go home tonight,” says Hannah firmly. “Have a long, peaceful bath. Really think about it.” She pauses. “And then call him.”

  I put my cup down and get to my feet. As I do so, my phone bleeps with a text, and my chest stiffens in hope.