I Owe You One (Page 39)

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.”