I Owe You One (Page 61)

I read the words yet again—Why do you want to meet?—and they’re plain hurtful. Where’s the intimacy? Where’s the affection? What are we, business associates?

My head is throbbing and I think I might start crying if I let myself. But I’m not going to. I’m Ninja Fixie. I’m tough. If he wants to be businesslike, I can be businesslike.

I type a new text, my thumbs jabbing the keys so hard I keep misfiring, but I don’t care, I have to let out some of my hurt.

There’s a business thing I wanted to ask you about.

I send the text, then wait breathlessly. Two can send hurtful messages. Two can play at being distant and formal. A moment later my phone pings:

Fine.

I stare at the single word, feeling a fresh stabbing in my heart. Why is he like this? Why has he given up on us? We had a row last night. A row. Couples have rows. Is he really going to throw it all away because I made one stupid mistake?

As I scroll backward and forward on my phone, reading all the texts we’ve exchanged today, I just don’t get it. He sounded OK this morning. Not exactly ebullient, but not cold either. He sounded like he wanted to see me.

Now, however, he sounds cold and detached and not the Seb I know. Let alone the Seb I’m in love with. What’s happened? Why?

But I can’t answer any of these questions standing here, motionless. So at last I force myself onward, my feet feeling heavy. I was so looking forward to seeing him. But now I’m dreading it.

—

I arrive at the building and Seb greets me himself at the lift and I instantly know: It’s worse than I expected.

“So,” he says. “Hi.” He extends a hand, but he doesn’t kiss me. His face is taut. His eyes are dark and ominous and keep looking past me. I shake his hand, feeling a bit surreal.

“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“No problem.”

He ushers me into his office as though I’m a stranger, asking politely if I’d like a coffee. All the time, his body language is wretched: stiff and tense, keeping his distance, swiveling away from me at every chance. And I keep thinking, Is this is a joke? Are we really acting like this? But it doesn’t seem to be a joke.

As I’m waiting for him to return with my coffee, I look around his office. It’s so much more characterful than his flat. So much more homey, with all the books and photos and the colorful rug.

This is his home, I suddenly realize. So his flat is … what?

Limbo. The word comes to me, unbidden. His flat is limbo. Empty and unloved and kind of waiting. And suddenly I’m desperate to talk to him about this. But how can I when we’re as stiff as two cats preparing to fight?

He comes back in with two mugs, and I look up, hoping that maybe now things will relax—but if anything he looks less friendly than before.

“What can I do for you?” he says, sitting down, and I feel a surge of fresh hurt. Fine. If he wants to play it like that, then fine.

“I’m here for a favor,” I say shortly. “Not for me, for someone else. For—”

“Yes, I can guess,” he cuts me off.

He sounds so hostile, I flinch. He looks as though he’s bubbling with outrage. Hatred even. And, OK, I know he told me to be tough with Jake. I know I’m doing the opposite of what he advised, coming here for a bailout. But does he have to be so sanctimonious?

“I don’t expect you to understand,” I say.

“No. Frankly, I don’t.”

“Well, I guess I’m just not as strong as you thought,” I snap miserably. “Sorry.”

“Oh, you don’t have to apologize.” His eyes are so hard and unforgiving, I wince. “Your life. Do what you want.”

Do what I want? How can he be like this?

“Seb …” I stare at him, tears hot behind my eyes. “Look. I know you’re angry. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. But let me tell you why I’m here.”

“Really?” he shoots back, so viciously that I inhale in shock. “I have a better idea, Fixie. Let’s not talk about it. What do you want? Money?”

I stare at him, stung. Money? And I’m about to retort, “Don’t be silly, all I want is a bit of advice for Jake or maybe a contact, or even just a hug would do.…” when something in me snaps. If we don’t love each other, then why am I even hesitating?

“Well, you do owe me,” I retort, slapping the words down between us. And instantly Seb’s face goes blank and kind of scary-looking.

For a few moments neither of us speaks. The air feels hazy with tension. I feel like I’m in a bad dream and I need to wake up. I need to start again. Say different things. Make things go another way.

But I can’t. This is life.

“Yes. I owe you,” Seb says at last, his voice sounding like it belongs to someone else. “How much? Wait, I’ll find a checkbook.”

He gets up without looking at me, heads to a filing cabinet, and roots round in a low drawer. I watch him, motionless, faint with misery. I’ve achieved what I came here to do. So why do I feel so hollow?

Why am I here, anyway? What am I doing?

Trying to keep a grip on things, I remind myself of the facts. Jake. Debt. Family.

Except, sitting here, the facts seem to be taking a different path in my head. I’m thinking this all through in a way I haven’t before. Suppose Seb gives Jake a lump of cash. What then? What have I achieved? He’ll only spend it on a load of expensive lunches and tell us lots of bullshit about “deals” and we’ll be back to square one.

As Seb opens and shuts drawers, I’m light-headed with confusion. I feel like everything is out of my grasp. I can’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to come here. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have anything. Except the knowledge that I’ve destroyed any hopes of being with Seb.

I feel a dart of anguish, so painful that I drop my head into my hands. Random thoughts are running through my head, in such a bewildering stream that I can’t keep track. Family first. Tough love. Block them out. That’s what Seb said: Block them out. But how can I block out Jake? He said he’d break up the family. He looked like he meant it. And I love my family, I love them, despite everything.…

And then it comes to me in a kind of flash.

Love. It’s all about love.

Love isn’t blocking people out; it’s the opposite. If you love someone, you engage with them. You don’t block them out; you talk to them.

When did I last properly talk to Jake? When did Mum? He doesn’t let us in. He bats us away with his smart cars and drawling accent, with his lies and threats. But who is he underneath?

My head feels like it’s exploding. Everything is becoming clear. I don’t need to love Jake less; I need to love him more. We all do. Me. Mum. Leila. He needs the kind of tough, unconditional love that means we actually, properly, help him sort himself out.

Tough love. The toughest love. The lovingest love there is.

“OK.” I hear Seb’s voice and I lift my head to see him sitting back at his desk. “What do I owe you?”

A shaft of light from the window is catching his eyes, turning them a shiny green-brown again. I look at his face and find myself thinking, I love you. But what good is that now?

“Nothing.” I gather up my bag. “Actually, I don’t need any money, after all. Or any help. Thank you. Sorry to bother you.”

“That’s quite the volte-face,” says Seb expressionlessly.

“Yes, well. I’ve realized something. And, actually, it was you who helped me realize it.” My voice wavers slightly, and I clear my throat. “So … thanks.”

“Oh yes?” says Seb with stony indifference.

“Yes. You did.” His expression could not be less encouraging, but I force myself to press on. “When you talked about tough love. You helped me realize that if you really love someone, you don’t just shove cash at them. You help them become the person they’re meant to be. And that’s what unconditional love is.”

I gaze at him, desperate for some reaction, some warmth, something …

“Unconditional love,” Seb echoes at last, in an odd voice. His eyes look kind of scorched, as though I’ve dealt him some blow. “Well, I’m glad if you’ve worked that all out for yourself. But I have a busy day. So.” He pushes his chair back, as though to wrap up things.

I stare at him, feeling winded. That’s it? That’s his reaction?

“Why aren’t you more pleased?” My words tumble out before I can stop them, and to my horror, two tears spill over onto my cheeks. “I listened to you! I took your advice!”

“I am pleased,” he says. “I’m super-pleased. Good luck with your project. Goodbye,” he adds, standing up, and with trembling legs I rise too.

“Goodbye,” I echo him with miserable sarcasm. “Nice knowing you.”

I stalk out, my head in a daze, my eyes filling with fresh tears. As I do so, I think I catch sight of the IOU coffee sleeve resting on a shelf—and something seems to tug at my mind.

But I’m in too much turmoil to dwell on it or think about anything beyond the fact that Seb looked at me like I was a stranger. And everything’s worse than before. And I just don’t get it.