I Owe You One (Page 68)

“You should have come to Farrs,” I say automatically. “We have lovely storage bags in amazing prints—” I break off, with an abashed smile. “Sorry. Can’t stop selling.”

Seb returns my smile. Then his brow suddenly crumples. “Fixie,” he says, as though only just realizing the situation. “You’ve done enough. You must surely need to go. It’s a busy time for you.”

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get the bags. Then I’ll go.”

As we step out of the building, the cold air feels refreshing, and we fall easily into step, side by side.

“Well … thank you,” says Seb, after we’ve walked for a couple of minutes. “Thank you so much. What you did today is above and beyond.”

“Don’t be silly,” I say at once. “I wanted to. As a …” I hesitate. “As a friend.”

“As a friend,” Seb echoes after a beat. “Right.”

We walk on a while longer, until we’re in a little arcade of shops, all decorated with lights and tinsel. A group of children is singing carols and we stop to listen for a bit. Then, against the background of tra-la-las, Seb says, his eyes firmly fixed forward, “So, how’s the unconditional love going?”

At once my stomach flips over. My mind swoops back to his office, to that horrible row we had about Jake. Is that his issue? That I won’t give up on my brother? That I ignored his advice and stuck by my family?

“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 take easily 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?”