I Owe You One (Page 53)

I break off, realizing I don’t even know what I want; I just needed to share all this with him.

“Hey!” says Seb gently. “Fixie, don’t worry. You’ve got this.” And he sounds so sure, my confidence zooms up again. Maybe I have got this. “You want me to come over for lunch? Have a sandwich, talk it through?”

—

It hadn’t occurred to me that no one at Farrs has met Seb yet. As he walks into the shop in his smart coat and kisses me, right in front of everyone, I’m aware of all the staff turning to gawp at us, in a totally unprofessional way, and I can’t help feeling proud. He looks properly handsome, his face all flushed from the cold.

“So, this is Farrs,” he says, looking around. “It’s fantastic!”

I want to say, “It’s not; it’s underperforming and it’s all my fault,” but that can wait till lunch.

“Hello, welcome to Farrs,” says Stacey, sidling up and batting her eyelashes at Seb. “Any … needs I can help you with?”

I hide a spark of frustration. Stacey must not pause suggestively before saying the word needs. I’ve told her that before. And has she unbuttoned her top?

“I’m fine,” says Seb, smiling at her. “Thanks.”

“Funny story,” says Greg, coming forward and surveying Seb with his prominent eyes. “Fixie once brought a boyfriend here and he was trying to show off with the knives and he chopped his finger off.”

There’s a stunned silence. I glance at Seb, and I can see he’s trying to think of a reply.

Oh God, if Morag leaves, how am I going to stay sane, even?

“That’s not really a funny story, is it, Greg?” I say, trying to sound relaxed while killing him with my eyes. “And it was only a tiny slice. He hardly needed to go to hospital.”

“Well, we all laughed,” says Greg with a shrug. “Didn’t last,” he says to Seb. “Don’t even remember his name now. Oh yeah, I do—Matthew McConnell.”

“OK!” I say shrilly. “Well, we’d better get going; see you later, guys.…”

I grab Seb, hustle him out of the shop, and only breathe out once we’re safely on the pavement. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly.” His eyes crinkle in amusement. “They’re great.”

“They’re all deranged.”

“They watch out for you. I like that.” He squeezes my hand. “Now, come on. Let me buy you lunch.”

There’s a sandwich shop opposite Farrs, and it’s too freezing to venture any farther, so we duck in there and find a tiny table at the back, where no one can overhear us.

“So.” Seb spreads his hands, when we’re sitting down with our paninis. “You need to take charge. Sounds like a good idea to me. What’s the problem?”

“It’s Jake,” I say miserably. “He just … I just … He affects me. I need to make my case really strongly and I’m afraid that when it comes to it, I won’t.” I tug at the corner of my panini and nibble at the piece of bread.

“OK,” says Seb. “Let’s go back to the beginning. Why does Jake freak you out so much, and how?”

He looks like he really wants to know, and I’m tired of only telling half the story. So this time I go right back to our childhood, to Jake’s personality, to the way I always felt inferior to both my siblings. I talk about how my skating sucked up Mum’s attention, how my failed business sucked up Mum’s money, and how bad I felt about both of those.

And then I talk about how I feel today. The guilt. The inadequacy. My faltering voice. The ravens that flap about my face.

Seb listens silently. Occasionally his face flinches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I have thoughts,” I conclude despairingly. “I have arguments. I can see them there, as if they’re in a thought bubble. But I can’t get them out of the thought bubble and into the air.”

Seb’s eyebrows are knitted together in a thoughtful frown. Then he looks directly at me and says, “You’re being too gentle. You need to punch through the bubble. Are you angry with your brother?”

“I am,” I say after a pause. “But I feel guilty too. I mean, he can be nice when he wants to be—”

“That wasn’t the question,” says Seb, cutting me off. “Are you angry with him?”

“Yes,” I admit. “Yes, I am. I’m angry.”

“Well, use that anger.” He leans forward, his face animated. “Feel it. Punch your way out of the bubble like a … a ninja.”

“A ninja?” I can’t help laughing.

“Yes! You have the words, you have the ideas; I know you do. You’re bright and dynamic and basically the best person I know, and to be honest the idea that some brother of yours is making you feel the way you do makes me feel pretty livid myself. I’ve only met the guy briefly, but …”

Seb smiles, but his jaw is tight and his hand has clenched hard around his panini.

“OK, I’ll be a ninja.” I stir my coffee round, gazing into the whirlpool, trying to find some strength. “I get so nervous, though. How do you do it?”

“How do I do what?” Seb seems surprised.

“You speak up at shareholders’ meetings and people shout at you and you don’t seem to care.”

“I guess I think about why I’m speaking,” says Seb thoughtfully. “Who I’m speaking for. Who I represent. I’m speaking for people who don’t have a voice, and that inspires me. That powers me along.”

He bites into his panini, then nods at me. “Eat,” he says. “Ninjas need strength.”

I take a bite of my panini, and as I’m chewing, I feel a backbone growing inside me. I’m going to speak up for Mum. She’s the one I represent. She’s the one who doesn’t have a voice right now. And that’s going to power me along.

For the rest of the lunch, we talk about general stuff, but as we’re saying goodbye, Seb holds me by both arms and looks directly into my face.

“Ninja Fixie,” he says. “You can do it.”

He kisses me and walks away, his breath a trail of steam in the winter’s air, and I tell myself firmly, I can do this, I can do this. I can.

—

All afternoon, my jaw is firm. My mind is set. I’m going to do it. I’m going to have my say.

I stay late, wandering around the displays when everyone else has gone, remembering how I used to come to Farrs when I was a little girl and it seemed enormous. I remember hiding in cardboard boxes in the back room, and Dad “finding” me. I remember trips to the storage facility being the most exciting thing in the world. I remember breaking a plate when I was seven and being terrified and trying to mend it with Sellotape—until Mum found me, crouched behind a display, and scooped me in for a hug.

This place is my life.

There’s a sound at the door and I look up in surprise to see Bob coming in, wrapped up against the cold in his usual beige anorak, plus a scarf and woolly hat.

“Fixie!” he says. “I hoped you’d still be around. I left my pullover here yesterday.” He clicks his tongue in mild self-reproach. “I’m seeing my sister tonight, and she gave it to me for my birthday, so I want to wear it, of course. We always give each other M&S pullovers,” he adds. “You can’t go wrong, can you?”

“No,” I agree. “You can’t go wrong.”

I wait for him to pop into the back room and retrieve the pullover. Then, as he’s walking toward me, I say impulsively, “Bob, are we OK?”

“OK?” Bob instinctively glances around, as though I meant, “Bob, are we facing imminent attack?”

“OK,” I repeat. “Financially. I know you send me figures all the time, but I don’t always … I mean, recently …” I stop feebly, not wanting to admit the truth, which is: “I’ve been too wrapped up in my new love affair to look at any figures.”

Bob puffs out air, as though considering what to say, and I feel a sudden pang of dread.

“We’re OK,” he says at last. “Not bad. It’s not a disaster.”

It’s not a disaster?

I stare at him, trying not to look as stricken I feel. I was hoping for better than “It’s not a disaster.”

“Sales aren’t as good as last year, no one can deny that, but there’s a while before Christmas, so it’s still all to play for. I’m sure you’ve got lots up your sleeve,” Bob adds encouragingly, and his optimism makes me feel warm with shame. “What we really need,” he adds, as though getting to the nub of the issue, “is a bit of an upswing.”

We need a bit of an upswing. How are we going to get an upswing?

“Thanks, Bob.” I try to sound breezy, as though getting worrying news is something I deal with in my stride. “Great. Good to know. So. We’ll … work on that.”

“One thing I was wondering about, though …” Bob takes a few steps toward me, with an odd expression I can’t quite read. “These loans we’ve been making. Will this be a regular thing?”