I Owe You One (Page 34)

I glance over at Jake and feel a convulsion of laughter. His face. His face! He breaks away from the group of smart people he’s with and heads swiftly toward the red carpet.

“Delighted to see you,” he says smoothly to Sheila. “Absolutely delighted. But may I suggest—” He breaks off as the door opens and six more members of the Cake Club pile in, sweeping past the bouncer, all wearing anoraks and sensible shoes.

“Ooh, look!” Brenda exclaims, peering around. “Doesn’t it all look strange?”

“Morag!” calls another woman whose name I don’t know. “I brought oatmeal cookies. Where shall I put them?” She brandishes a plastic box, and I see Jake flinch in horror.

“Girls!” calls Sheila, waving vigorously from the red carpet. “Here! We’re doing photos. Young man,” she says to the local photographer. “Would you do a group shot? Come on, Cake Club! Nicole, you don’t mind moving, do you? Morag, join us!”

As Sheila literally elbows Nicole off the red carpet, my stomach is hurting from trying not to laugh. Within thirty seconds, the red carpet is full of middle-aged women in sensible coats, all beaming and waving at the camera. The smart guests are peering at them in surprise. Jake looks like he wants to throw up. I can hear Nicole ranting to Kitten Smith about how she’s the face of Farrs and this is all so unprofessional.

At that moment, I hear a voice in my ear. “Love, I wondered if you had another mug? Same as before, the brown one.”

I whip round and bite my lip. It’s my friend the old shuffly man with the shopping trolley. Of course it is.

“Hello!” I say. “We’re not really open, but I’m sure I can get you a mug.”

“I saw the lights on,” he says conversationally, looking around. “Serving drinks, are you?”

“Here you are.” I pour him out a glass of champagne. “Enjoy.”

I hurry off and find a brown earthenware mug in the stock room. I wrap it in tissue, then return, take the old man’s money, and pack his new mug safely in his shopping trolley. The tills aren’t open, but I’ll sort it all out tomorrow.

“Would you like some more champagne?” I ask. “And a canapé? Or a cookie?”

“Well.” His rheumy eyes brighten as he looks at his nearly empty glass. “A drop more of this would be grand.…”

“Excuse me.” Jake’s stentorian voice interrupts us. “Do you have an invitation?” He doesn’t even wait for the old man to answer. “No. You don’t. So could you kindly leave?”

To my horror, he takes the old man by the elbow and starts to escort him, quite roughly, to the door.

“Jake!” I exclaim. “Jake, stop it!”

“This is a private event,” Jake says to the old man, ignoring me. “The shop will be open during normal hours tomorrow. Thank you so much.”

He turns back from dispatching the old man, and I feel a flare of rage.

“Fixie, can I see you for a minute?” says Jake in ominous tones, and I glare back at him.

“Yes,” I snap, and follow him to the back room. He slams the door and we stare at each other for a silent ten seconds. I’m forming furious, outraged phrases. I can see them now, flashing in their thought bubble, red and angry.

How dare you? That was a customer and he deserved respect! Who do you think you are? What would Dad say?

I draw breath, telling myself that this time I’ll do it; this time I’ll really have my say. But as I look up at Jake’s intimidating face, it happens again. My nerve collapses. The ravens have started flapping around me.

“Are you deliberately trying to sabotage our relaunch, Fixie?” he says, in his sarcastic, biting way. “I assume it was you who invited the anorak brigade, not to mention your homeless friend?”

“He’s not homeless!” I retort, as strongly as I can manage. “And even if he were, he’s a customer! And I think …” I swallow. “I just think …”

My words have ground to a halt. I hate myself right now. I can’t shout. I can’t assert myself. I can’t say the things I want to say.

“What?” demands Jake.

“I … I don’t think you should have treated him like that,” I stutter at last.

“Oh, you don’t?” Jake snaps back. “Well, I don’t think you should have invited all and bloody sundry to what was supposed to be a professional event.”

“I didn’t invite anyone!” I say. “It was Vanessa!” But Jake isn’t listening. He sweeps back out to the party and after a few seconds I follow, my cheeks burning. I’m thinking I might go and drown my sorrows with a cookie, when I see Leila waving at me.

“Leila!” I exclaim in relief, because if there’s anyone who will cheer your soul it’s Leila. She’s wearing a silver dress with a tulle skirt and looks like some sort of sprite.

“Fixie!” she says, and hugs me. “Thank goodness! I told Ryan you must be here somewhere.…”

“Ryan?” My heart lifts. “Is he here?”

“He’s here.” Leila bites her lip and lowers her voice. “He’s drunk.”

“Drunk?” I stare at her.

“It’s not good.” Leila looks anxious. “Fixie, you need to know something; he—” She breaks off as Ryan himself appears, holding two glasses of champagne. His eyes are bloodshot and he surveys us all with a morose gaze.

“Hi!” I say, kissing him. “Is everything … Are you …” My words trail away and I glance uncertainly at Leila, who winces. “What’s up?”

“Bastard fired me,” says Ryan, so lightly that at first I think I must have misheard.

“What?”

Ryan gives me a humorless smile and lifts his glass in a mock toast. “You heard me, Fixie. Bastard fired me. I’ve lost my job.”

—

Shock is too small a word for what I’m feeling right now. I’m beyond shocked. I’m stunned. Ryan’s lost his job?

We’ve commandeered the back room. I’ve forgotten about the party. All I can think about is Ryan.

“I just don’t get it,” I say, sinking into a chair opposite Ryan. “It makes no sense. How exactly did it happen?”

“Seb called me in and said it ‘wasn’t working out.’ ” Ryan shrugs. “That was it. The end. Finished.”

“But why?”

“I think you know why,” he says wryly.

I lean forward, surveying Ryan’s face, registering his calm, resigned expression.

“Seb was threatened by you,” I say. “Is that it?”

“Let’s just say, I saw it coming,” says Ryan, and takes a slug of his drink. “He’s right, it wasn’t working out. It wasn’t working out for him.”

“Because you were competition,” I say bluntly, and Ryan nods his head in assent.

My cloud of shock is starting to fade away and anger is rising in its place. It’s so unfair. It’s monstrous. Why couldn’t they work together? Why did Seb have to see Ryan as a threat? He promises him a chance, then dumps him? It’s just wrong.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind,” Ryan says, leaning back and looking pensively at the ceiling. “Only I gave a good few weeks to that place. I could have used that time to job-hunt. Truth is, he was never planning to employ me permanently. He was never going to keep me on. He only did it as a favor to you. Payback. Whatever.”

Everything seems so clear now. Seb was never going to take Ryan seriously as an employee. The whole thing was like a game, and I should never, ever have kick-started it.

“I wish I’d never claimed that stupid IOU,” I say passionately, getting to my feet. “I wish I’d never set eyes on him in the first place.”

“You weren’t to know.” Ryan shrugs again. “I just wish he’d been honest in the first place. He takes all my ideas, wrings me dry, and kicks me out. Still, what’s done is done.”

“So what will you do?”

“You know, Fixie … I have no idea. When a guy hits rock bottom, it’s like, what are the options?”

Ryan seems so resigned. So crushed. But I’m not resigned or crushed. I’m crackling with indignation. My fingers are drumming relentlessly. My feet are doing their thing: forward-across-back, forward-across-back. I can’t stay here. I can’t let Seb Marlowe get away with it. Who does he think he is?

Drawing myself up short, I suddenly recall the vow I made to myself in Seb’s office. I wasn’t going to try to fix stuff anymore, not unless it was super-important and vital.

But then, what’s this if not super-important and vital?

Abruptly, I reach for my bag and coat.

“I’ll be back in a while,” I say. “Stay at mine tonight. We’ll sort all this out.”

As I stride through the party, I feel grim and determined. “I have to go,” I say to Hannah. “Can you tell Jake?”

“Well, sure,” she says, looking surprised. “But what—”

“I have to fix a thing,” I say succinctly, and march out.

I stride to the tube station, travel all the way to Farringdon, and get out, feeling stony and unforgiving. Within a few minutes I’m at the ESIM building and I glance up as I approach, feeling suddenly foolish. I rushed out in such a blaze of indignation, I didn’t think about what time it was. Maybe no one’s there and I’ve wasted my time …