I Owe You One: A Novel

Nine

My legs don’t often shake. Like, actually physically tremble. But as I turn into Clerkenwell Road, I feel as though they might suddenly give way and leave me sitting in the gutter.

I’m wearing clothes that seemed suitable for a meeting with an investment manager: a fitted skirt and shirt plus a trench coat borrowed from Nicole, from her brief stint as a City PA. It’s too hot in this August weather, but it feels right. A pair of high-heeled shoes are pinching my toes. And as I tap along, I feel a bit surreal. Am I really doing this? Am I going to claim a job, worth tens of thousands of pounds, based on a scribble on a coffee-cup sleeve?

ESIM have been based in this street for two years. Before that, they were round the corner. And before that they were in Sebastian Marlowe’s flat in Islington, and he used to make the team pasta every Friday night. I read that in an article in Money Week.

I’ve read quite a lot about the company, in fact. I’ve found out exactly what ESIM does (invests in companies and funds for institutions and individuals). I know what their aim is (to help clients build portfolios with a commitment to high ethical, social, and environmental standards). I’ve looked up what Sebastian Marlowe does (runs it, basically).

After I’d learned all that, I had this random impulse and looked up Sebastian Marlowe on YouTube. And what I found wasn’t what I expected. At least, I don’t know what I expected. But it wasn’t a video clip of him standing up at some big shareholders’ meeting, berating the board on executive pay.

The title was “Sebastian Marlowe takes Roffey Read board to task.” He stood there, holding a microphone, his frondy hair waving around as he spoke in a measured way about how unfair it was that Sir Keith Barrowdine was due to receive a pay package of £8.9 million when his lowest-paid workers scraped by on the minimum wage. Then he started on about how this once-noble company used to house its workers in cottages and feel responsibility for their quality of life, and how many people on the board today had the slightest idea of where their lowest-paid workers were housed? (He got applause for that bit.) Then he asked, was it a coincidence that so many of the lowest-paid workers were women? Then he said he represented a large number of investors who all felt the same way and the board was clinging on to old, toxic habits and it should watch out.

I mean, it was quite stirring stuff.

I looked through YouTube, and there were a couple more videos, with him saying similar things at different meetings. And then I found an interview with him in the Financial Times, all about how he started his company.

It said he’d lost all his family at an early age. His dad died when he was ten, then his mum when he was eighteen, and then his older brother, James, got knocked off his bike two years ago. But rather than these personal tragedies crushing him, it said, they had taught him a love of life and a passion for justice. It said his colleagues described him as cheerful, well adjusted, and compassionate, and there was even a photo of him, captioned The Clerkenwell Crusader.

Which should all make me feel better, because he’s clearly a good person. But actually it makes me feel worse. Because here I am, coming to finagle a job out of him. OK, not finagle, exactly. But it feels a bit like that. A bit underhanded. A bit grabby.

Or … is it?

Ever since I decided to do this, four days ago, my mind has been swinging back and forth. Be fair, I keep thinking. That’s the maxim I try to live my life by. But what’s fair? One minute I think I am being fair. I’m totally within my rights. He owes me this. The next minute I think: Oh my God, what am I doing? I save his laptop and in return he gives my boyfriend a job? I mean, is that justice?

But then, he did insist he wanted to repay me, didn’t he?

And maybe I did save him millions of pounds.

Anyway, whatever. I’m doing it. I’ve got an appointment in five minutes. And the thought that’s powering me along is: Ryan needs this. Which means I need it too.

I’ve left Ryan waiting at a Starbucks round the corner. Before I went, he wrapped his arms around me and said, “It all begins here. A whole new start. Fingers crossed, eh, Fixie?”

“Fingers crossed.” I nodded, breathless with nerves.

Then he smiled and said, “I know you can do it.”

His blue eyes were fixed on mine in a way that I’ve dreamed of for years. I didn’t overreact—I just smiled back and said, “Hope so!” But inside, I felt a kind of explosion of love. After so much yearning, here was Ryan, with me. Relying on me. In partnership with me. All the things I’ve so desperately wished for.

As I walk along, peering up at the office buildings, my mind rewinds over the last few days. I’ve seen Ryan every day, round at our house—and something’s really changed between us, in a good way. Our vibe. Our connection. He’s confided in me. Asked my advice. He always gravitates toward me—putting an arm along my shoulders or pulling me onto his knee. It feels as if we’re closer than we ever have been before.

But the question that circles my mind constantly is: Do we have a viable future together? And the answer lies right here, in the office of Sebastian Marlowe.

I push the door open, take the stairs to the first floor, and there it is. A reception desk with ESIM printed in green letters on white. I can see an open-plan space with people sitting at computers and hear the hum of conversation coming from behind a door. The receptionist is a motherly middle-aged woman, and she smiles at me in a warm, friendly way.

“Hello,” I begin, as confidently as I can. “I’m Fixie Farr. I have an appointment with Sebastian Marlowe.”

“Of course,” she says. “He’s expecting you. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, please. That would be lovely.”

I’m expecting to be directed to a seating area, when a door straight ahead of me flies open—and there he is. Taller than I remember. Frondy hair shining in a little shaft of sunshine. Woodland eyes gleaming at me. An open, friendly smile.

“Hello,” he says. “You came.”

“I did.” I can’t help smiling back.

“Well, come on in!” He gestures at his door and I follow him into an office which instantly makes me feel relaxed. I don’t know if it’s the bright modern art or the battered leather sofa, but it feels human, despite the three computers. There’s a bookshelf lining a wall and a couple of plants and a worn antique rug. The whole place feels homey.

“I’ll get us some coffee,” says Sebastian. “If you’d like coffee?” His brow creases. “Or I think we can run to herbal tea.…”

“Coffee would be great,” I say. “But your receptionist said she’d get me some.”

“I’m sure she did.” He smiles again in that friendly way. “But she’s twisted her ankle and she’s supposed to be taking it easy, not that she ever obeys orders. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.”

As he strides out of the room, I wander over to the bookshelf. Like the rest of the room, it’s pretty characterful, with books on business, novels, and ethnic-looking sculptures. The top shelf is empty apart from two modern vases, and as I survey them, I feel a familiar sensation creeping over me. The left-hand one is crooked, and I’m already itching to straighten it.

It’s not my business, I tell myself firmly. Not my vases. Not my problem. Look away.

Oh God. But I can’t look away. My fingers have started doing their thing, drumming against each other. How can you live with crooked vases? Doesn’t he notice? Doesn’t it irritate him? As I gaze at the offending vases, my feet start their stepping motion: forward-across-back, forward-across-back. It would be so easy to fix. It would only take a moment. In fact—

I can’t bear it anymore. I have to straighten it. I step forward and raise a hand, and as I’m pushing it into place, I hear Sebastian’s voice behind me: “Those vases haven’t been touched since my grandmother placed them there, just before she died.”

What? What?

I whip round, aghast, to see Sebastian behind me, holding two cups of coffee.

“Oh my God. Sebastian, I’m so sorry!” I say in a flurry. “I should never have— It’s just, it was crooked and driving me mad, and I had to fix it. That’s my flaw,” I add shamefacedly. “I always have to fix things, and then I end up making everything worse, but—”

“I may not have been entirely serious,” he cuts me off, midstream. “My flaw is: I like to wind people up. Sorry. And by the way, do call me Seb.” He shoots me a mischievous grin and I can’t help laughing, even though my heart is still thudding in delayed panic. What if that had been true, about the grandmother?

Or what if it had been the grandmother’s ashes? I flinch as the horrifying thought strikes me. What if I’d come into his office, a total stranger, and messed with a memorial to a beloved relative?

“You seem worried,” says Seb, eyeing me curiously.

“I was just thinking, what if that was your granny’s ashes?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

“Ah.” He nods. “Yes, that would be awkward. Thankfully, my granny’s ashes are safely interred in a churchyard.”

It’s my cue to sit down, but somehow I can’t stop talking. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

“We scattered my dad’s ashes at sea,” I hear myself saying. “It was a disaster. We threw them toward the waves, but it was so windy, they blew back in our faces, and Mum was batting at them, saying, ‘You get in the sea, Mike, you obstinate sod; you know it’s where you want to be,’ and then this dog came running up—” I break off. “Sorry. Not relevant.”

His whole family died, I remember, in a horrifying rush. And I’m standing here talking about ashes. Shut up, Fixie.

“Well,” says Seb after a pause. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes! Sorry. Let’s … yes.”

Why did I even have to touch that vase? I’m thinking as he ushers me into a chair. I feel so angry with myself. Can’t I learn? Can’t I change?

Yes, I resolve. I can change. And I’m going to. The next time something bugs me, unless it’s super-important and vital, I’m leaving it. I am leaving it.

“I must hear, though,” Seb adds as he sits down. “What happened with the dog?”

“You don’t want to know.” I roll my eyes expressively and he laughs—the open, boyish laugh I remember from the coffee shop. Then silence falls and he regards me expectantly.

It’s time to say what I’m here to say. But I still feel rattled. I need a moment to compose myself.

“I like your office,” I say.

“Oh, good,” he says. “I’m glad.”

“Some offices seem to say, ‘Be afraid,’ ” I blabber on desperately. “But this one seems to say …” I cast around for inspiration. “It says, ‘Let’s get on with things; this is going to be great.’ ”

“Ha!” Seb seems delighted by my analysis. “I like that.”

I sip my coffee, playing for time, and Seb sips his too, and there’s one of those expectant, silent beats.

Come on, Fixie. Say it. Just say it.

“So anyway, I’m here to claim my IOU,” I say in the lightest manner that I can.

“Great!” He looks genuinely pleased. “I hoped you were.”

A tiny part of me relaxes. So he hasn’t forgotten about it. And he doesn’t seem offended. On the other hand, he hasn’t heard what I want yet.

“OK. So.” I take a sip of coffee, once more playing for time. “First of all … I have to ask you something. Were you serious?”

“Of course I was serious!” he says, sounding surprised. “I made you a genuine offer. I’m indebted to you and I want to pay you back for your kindness in any way that I can. Have you still got the coffee sleeve?” His mouth curves into an amused smile.

“Of course!” I produce it from my bag. “You’d better check it.”

He reaches over, takes it from me, and gives it a mock-serious examination. “Yes,” he says at last. “I hereby pronounce this to be authentic.” He pushes it back across the desk, then faces me squarely. “So, what can I do for you?” His eyes suddenly light up. “Did you want to take me up on the investment advice? Because—”

“No. Something else.” My stomach is churning hard, but I have to press on. “Something …” I swallow. “A different thing.”

Oh God, come on. Say it.

“Of course. Anything at all. What? Not a chocolate chip muffin, after all?” he adds with another laugh.

“No, not a chocolate chip muffin,” I say, digging my nails into my palm, willing myself to say it. “Not a chocolate chip muffin.” I force myself to look up and meet his gaze. “A job.”

“A job?” I see the shock pass over his face before he can dissemble. “Sorry,” he adds hastily as he notices my expression. “I don’t mean to sound … I just didn’t … A job. Wow. OK.”

As he’s speaking, I can see his brain working. I can see the cogs whirring. I don’t need to point out, “You said ‘anything at all.’ ” He’s pointing it out to himself.

“I know it’s big,” I say quickly. “I mean, it’s really big. But I thought … maybe we can help each other? I overheard you talking in the coffee shop, saying that you couldn’t find the right person to fill a junior position. You need someone dynamic, who’s been in the real world, who doesn’t mind working hard, someone who wants to learn, someone who isn’t the typical graduate … someone different.”

As I’m talking, I can see his expression changing from wary to eager. He leans forward, gazing at me as though for the first time.

“Yes,” he says emphatically, as I come to a finish. “Yes. Yes! And I’m sorry I reacted the way I did—because what am I thinking? You’d be a perfect fit for us! I’ve already seen how you react in a crisis. I’ve seen how quick and forward-thinking you are. You’re bright, you’re positive, you’re honest.…” His gaze flashes toward the vases, then glints teasingly at me. “You clearly have great attention to detail.… Basically I can say, without any further ado, we’d love to have you on the team. We’ll need to talk about pay, of course.…”

My face is growing red. Shit. Shit. I need to stop this.

“Wait!” I cut off his surge of enthusiasm midstream. “No! That isn’t … I’m sorry. I should have … You don’t understand.” I rub my face awkwardly. “Sorry, this is my fault. I thought I’d said …”

“Said what?”

“It’s not for me. The job, I mean.”

“Not for you?” he says blankly. “But—”

“I’m claiming the job on behalf of someone else. A … a friend.” I clear my throat, trying to sound confident. “I’m transferring the debt.”

The light in his eyes has faded away. For a few moments he’s silent—then he says, “But I wanted to repay you, not someone else.”

“It will be repaying me! Honestly it will. I really want to do this person a favor.”

His gaze moves to the cardboard coffee-cup sleeve lying on the desk. Again I can see he’s thinking hard. “Does our agreement allow for transfer?” he says carefully.

“Why not?” I say robustly, because I anticipated he might say this. “Every other kind of debt can be passed on. There’s a market in debt, after all.”

“Maybe there is,” he says wryly. “That’s not necessarily a good thing.”

“Well, anyway. That’s … that’s what I’d like. Please.”

There’s silence. Seb’s eyes have darkened a few shades. He picks up a stapler and starts fiddling with it, as though trying to delay his decision.

“You want me to give a job to a total stranger,” he says at last.

“I’m a total stranger,” I counter. “And you were hiring me a moment ago, weren’t you?”

“You’re not a stranger! At least—” He stops himself mid-flow, as though confused by his own thoughts, and I suddenly wonder if he feels the same way I did in the coffee shop. I heard him talking on the phone and I thought, I get you. Maybe he thinks that about me.

I mean, some people are like that. You instantly relate to them. Whereas others you bash away at for years, but you’ll never understand them, not in a million years. (Uncle Ned.)

“So, who is it?” I can tell Seb’s trying to be positive and fair-minded. “Does she have any investment experience?”

“It’s not a she; it’s a he.”

“Ah.” Seb’s face changes again, in some infinitesimal way. “Well … does he?”

“No. But isn’t that the point? You said you want someone with experience of the world. Well, no one’s got more experience than Ryan! He’s started his own business, he’s battled his way through Hollywood—”

“Hollywood!” Seb sounds astonished.

“He tried to make it there as a producer, but he found it so dishonest. So slippery. He’d love to apply all his business principles to something more worthwhile—and what you do is worthwhile. I’ve seen you on YouTube,” I add. “It’s so inspiring, how you give all those company directors a hard time about their pay.”

“Well.” Seb shrugs. “It’s what I believe in.”

“And so does Ryan!” I say quickly. “He wants to make a difference to the world. Like you.”

I’m hoping I’ve said enough to persuade him, but Seb shakes his head.

“I’m afraid I’m having trouble processing this,” he says. “A Hollywood producer wants to take on a junior role at an ethical-investment firm? A low-salaried, unglamorous research role? Excuse my skepticism, but—”

“He’s not a Hollywood producer anymore,” I cut in bluntly. “He lost everything. He’s had a terrible time and he knows he needs to start again from the bottom, but he’s willing to work, to learn, to roll his sleeves up and get his hands dirty.… I mean, should he be punished because he tried and failed?” I lean forward, my voice rising passionately. “He’s so talented, he has so much to offer … but he feels washed up. Most people wouldn’t even give him a chance. But maybe you could be that person. You could change his life forever. And maybe that would be worthwhile too.”

There’s silence as Seb digests my words.

“You’re a good advocate,” he says at last. “Have you ever thought of going into law?”

“I can’t spell,” I say honestly, and Seb throws back his head in laughter.

“Well, you’ve sold me. Do I get to meet … Ryan, is it?”

“He’s waiting round the corner,” I say eagerly. “He’s got his CV with him. I’ll text him to come here, shall I?”

I send the text and there’s a slightly awkward silence. Seb says, “I’ll make some more coffee,” and gets up from his desk.

He’s gone for a while and I can hear him talking in a distant room. I don’t try to catch what he’s saying and I clamp my hands by my sides before I can straighten any more precious vases.

I’m feeling a touch jittery about Seb and Ryan meeting. I hope Ryan is open with Seb. I hope he doesn’t get defensive and try to show off in that way he does sometimes. I hope he shows the real, thoughtful Ryan. The bruised, humble Ryan who’s learned some tough lessons and wants to start again, however much work it takes. The Ryan I know.

As Seb comes back in, I jump. “He should be here any minute,” I say.

“Great.” Seb smiles, but it’s not with the warmth he had before, and there’s another awkward beat.

I’m desperately longing for Ryan to appear—and when at last he steps in through the door, my heart catches. With his blond hair and tan he looks like a movie star, and he greets Seb with a dazzling smile, lifting his hand for a high-five. When Seb doesn’t respond but extends his hand for a traditional, businesslike handshake, Ryan doesn’t flicker. He simply shakes Seb’s hand as though that’s what he meant to do all along.

“So you’re the mystery man,” he greets Seb, in that charming way he has.

“I might say the same of you,” replies Seb pleasantly. I can see he’s determined to be positive, and I feel a wave of gratitude toward him. He could have chucked me out, but here he is, giving Ryan a chance. “Fixie tells me you’re interested in our junior research role.”

“Oh, this is all down to Fixie.” Ryan laughs. “She saved your company or whatever, so I guess you owe her some serious payback.”

I wince inside and hastily chime in, “I never said that!”

“Well, I’d be glad to have a chat,” says Seb. “You’ve been working in Hollywood, I understand?”

“Hollywood.” Ryan winces. “Have you ever been there? Don’t. It’s full of two-faced, double-crossing snakes. This time a month ago I was sitting in the Chateau Marmont—you know the Chateau Marmont?”

“I don’t, I’m afraid,” says Seb politely.

I can’t help cringing. I wish Ryan wouldn’t name-drop. I mean, I understand it—he’s defensive and he can’t help compensating. But he doesn’t need to. I glance at Seb, hoping he’ll understand that Ryan’s just insecure.

“Well, it all fell into place,” says Ryan. “I understood my life, just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “I was in the wrong city, wrong country, wrong career. I had two options. Grind my way on … or cut my losses.” He spreads his arms and addresses Seb directly. “So here I am and I need to start again. Whatever it takes.”

“I see.” Seb seems to be taking this in. “And you really think ethical investment is the right area for you?”

There’s silence. Ryan’s blue eyes are flickering to Seb and to me and around the office as though he’s weighing up what to say.

“Look,” he says finally. “I don’t know. I don’t know all the answers. I thought film producing was for me. I was wrong. All I can say is, if you can give me a chance, if you can help me back on that ladder … then I’ll pay you back, I’ll work my ass off, and I’ll appreciate it forever.”

He sounds so passionate, so humble, that I want to cheer. This is the Ryan I love—the honest, heartfelt Ryan who’s had some knocks but won’t give up.

Sebastian’s face has softened during Ryan’s speech. Now he looks as though he has real sympathy for him.

“Knock-backs happen to everyone,” he says. “And I should imagine Hollywood isn’t the most straightforward place. Good for you, for wanting to start again. I mean, there’ll be a lot for you to learn.…”

“I’m happy to learn,” says Ryan emphatically. “I want to learn. And you know what? Maybe some of what I picked up in the film world can help you too.”

Seb is silent a moment, eyeing Ryan up and down. Then he seems to come to a decision. “I’m going to bring in my head of research, Alison, if you don’t mind,” he says. “I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

“I’ll be going, then,” I say hastily. “You need to talk properly about … everything. Have a great chat. And thank you,” I add to Seb. “Thank you so much.” On impulse, I pick up the coffee-cup sleeve from where it’s still lying on the desk. I grab a pen and write Paid, followed by the date. “More than,” I say, as I give it to him. “More than paid.”

“Well, thank you.” Seb’s eyes crinkle as he reads it. “I appreciate it.”

“See you later,” says Ryan to me. “We’re meeting at Six Folds Place, yeah? Are you a member of Six Folds Place?” he adds to Seb. “The private members’ club?”

“No,” says Seb. “That kind of thing isn’t really my scene.”

“Fair enough,” says Ryan quickly. “It’s all pretty fake.”

“But Thai food is.” Sebastian’s eyes light up and he turns to me. “I was wondering if you could give the details of that restaurant you mentioned?”

“Of course!” I say.

His business card is still attached to the coffee sleeve, with his mobile number on it, so I quickly text him the contact details for the restaurant. I know I’m not the one being interviewed here—but even so, I feel like the more helpful I am, the better for Ryan.

“Thanks,” says Sebastian, smiling at me. “Well, I guess I’ll go and get Alison. Bye, Fixie.”

“Bye,” I say, and shake his hand, feeling suddenly shy. “And thanks again. Thanks so much.”

As Seb heads out of the room, I glance up at Ryan, feeling a burst of joy. He’s got a job! He’s staying in London!

“You did it!” I whisper.

“You did it.” He grins at me, glances around to check we’re still alone, then pulls me in for a kiss. And I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself relax for the first time in days. No more worries! Ryan’s here for good!

And I don’t want to be needy. I don’t want to say, “What does this mean for us?” in some pushy way, before we’ve even left the office. But on the other hand, why else did I make all this effort?

“So I guess things are … different now?” I venture. “For us? Now that you’re staying?”

I feel a beat of fear that Ryan will say, “What do you mean?” or “We need to talk,” or something else utterly crushing. But he doesn’t. Instead, he gently cups my face with his hands, his eyes shining with an exhilaration that mirrors mine.

“I guess they are, Fixie,” he says, and I can hear the happiness in his voice too. “I guess they are.”