I Owe You One: A Novel

Thirteen

Two weeks later Mum is in St. Tropez with Aunty Karen. She keeps sending me long texts about the marina and the boats and the sunshine, and I know I should send her a proper reply—but I can’t face it. Once I start typing to Mum, everything will pour out, and I’ll start sniveling all over my keyboard.

So instead I’m zapping her lots of smiley faces and emojis of shiny suns and sailboats and dodging the truth altogether. (Maybe that’s what emojis were invented for in the first place, and I’ve just been using them wrong. They’re not there to convey thoughts in a fun way; they’re there to lie to your mum.)

I’ve also sent three texts to Ryan. One very dignified and calm. One a tad less dignified and less calm. One totally desperate and shameless, trying to give him an opportunity to prove he isn’t as bad as I think.

Then I made the even bigger mistake of showing my texts to Hannah and she recoiled in horror. She threatened to come and confiscate my phone at night when I was asleep. She said she had a spare key and she’d creep through the house if need be. And I thought, Actually, she might. So I stopped.

And Ryan never replied to any of them. Nor left me a voicemail or an email, nor any messages at the shop. Nor a letter. (I mean, clearly he wasn’t going to write me a letter; I don’t know why I asked the postman if he’d dropped any envelopes.) But it’s fine, because I’m a strong-minded person and my strategy is: Simply stop thinking about him.

Well, I’m still thinking about him, obviously. Now and then. The name Ryan does pass through my thoughts; how could it not? But then, there are plenty of other things to think about right now. Like the fact that Jake still hasn’t produced a budget for the relaunch party, so I still don’t know how much he spent on it. And the fact that Nicole canceled Cake Club last night without telling me, so she could hold a mind-body-spirit talk in the store, and I’ve already had four irate emails. And the most pressing fact of all: that I’ve promised Hannah I’ll have a chat with Tim about trying for a baby. She wants me to find out why he changed his mind and, if possible, change it back.

Change it back? Me? How am I supposed to change Tim’s mind back? How am I even supposed to bring up the subject? I’ve known Tim a long time, but family planning is definitely not the kind of conversation topic we normally cover.

Hannah sounded so pleading, though, I found myself promising I’d have a go. She told me she’d bring him into the shop one day after work and I should “engage him in conversation about babies.” Only it should seem “natural.”

“I don’t want him to know I’ve spoken to you,” she said adamantly. “I want him to think he’s changed his mind back independently. OK?”

“Er … right,” I said. “Of course. Sure.”

I thought I’d have some time to prepare, but it’s the next day, and here they are already, at 5:30 P.M. Hannah must have made Tim leave work early, I realize. And left work early herself. Clearly this is a high priority.

Oh God. So, no pressure, then.

“Hi, Hannah; hi, Tim!” I greet them, trying to sound natural. “What a surprise to see you!”

“Hi, Fixie!” replies Hannah stiltedly. “Yes, it was a spontaneous decision to come. I’m going to look at blenders for a birthday present. You keep Tim company.” And she strides off to the back of the shop without a backward look. Tim and I are alone. It’s my cue.

Shit. I should have planned this. What the hell am I going to say about babies?

“So!” I begin brightly. “How are you, Tim?”

“Good, thanks,” he says in that flat way of his. “How about you?”

“Yes, all fine, all good.” I nod a few times, frantically racking my brain. “Er … babies are great, aren’t they?”

Shit. That just came out.

“What?” Tim peers at me with a suspicious frown. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing!” I say hastily. “I was only thinking about it because … um … we had a baby in the shop today. It was so cute. And I thought, That’s the future. That’s the next generation. Let’s keep this planet in good shape, for the kids.”

Wait. Somehow I’ve diverted onto an environmental talk.

“What kids?” says Tim, looking confused.

“Kids!” I say desperately. “You know, kids!”

I can see Hannah peering out from behind the blender display, raising her eyebrows questioningly, and abruptly I come to a decision. There’s no point being subtle with Tim. You have to bludgeon him.

“Listen, Tim,” I say in a low, firm voice. “Hannah wants a baby. Why have you changed your mind? You’ve really upset her. And, by the way, she mustn’t know we’re having this conversation.”

Immediately Tim’s face closes up. “It’s my business,” he says, looking away.

“It’s Hannah’s business too,” I point out. “Don’t you want to have a family? Don’t you want to be a father?”

“I don’t know, OK?” Tim’s face is tight and kind of upset-looking. I’m definitely pressing his buttons.

“You’d agreed that it was what you wanted,” I persist. “What changed your mind? Something must have changed your mind.”

I can see Tim’s face working with some sort of emotion, and I wait breathlessly.

“I didn’t know what it involved!” he suddenly bursts out. “Do you know what having a baby involves?”

I want to make a hilarious joke about how his contribution isn’t exactly tough, but I’m sensing it’s not the moment.

“Like what?”

“It’s a nightmare!” he says, looking beleaguered. “It’s endless!”

“What do you mean?” I stare at him.

“Check baby carrier for weak seams. Visit nurseries. Research safety of car seats. Literacy. Organic paint. La Mars. Annabel Karmel. Flashcards.”

As this stream of gibberish comes out of his mouth, he’s counting items off on his fingers. I wonder for an instant if he’s having some sort of breakdown.

“Tim,” I say carefully, “what are you talking about?”

“Don’t tell Hannah I said any of this,” he says, hastily lowering his voice. “Promise me. But she’s just … It’s all … I can’t do it.”

I’m thoroughly baffled. This conversation has gone so off-piste, I don’t know what to say next. And now here comes Hannah, clutching her blender, looking at me expectantly.

“Hi!” I say, my voice high and awkward. “So, Tim and I were chatting about … things.…”

There’s a long, prickly silence. I can sense both Hannah and Tim trying to convey urgent silent messages to me.

“So!” I say again, avoiding both their gazes. “I’ll ring that up.…” I take Hannah’s payment and hand her the blender. “I’ll … er … call you later, shall I?”

“Shall we have supper?” says Hannah eagerly.

“Can’t.” I pull a regretful face. “I’ve got Leila’s birthday-drinks thing at Six Folds Place. But we’ll talk.” I nod. “We’ll talk.”

As Hannah and Tim leave, I breathe out. I need to decode all that. I need to work out what I’m going to say to Hannah. And look up what “La Mars” means. Or was it “Le Mahs”?

I’m about to type it into my phone when Bob comes out of the back room in his anorak to go home, and I smile at him.

“Hi, Bob. Everything OK? We’re not going bust yet?”

This is Mum’s little joke. She says it every time she sees Bob, so I’m keeping up the tradition.

“Not quite yet!” Bob replies with his customary little laugh. But I notice his fingers are tugging at his cuffs, as they always do when he wants to venture something awkward. “Just working through the invoices for the relaunch party,” he adds. “That DJ was an expensive chap, wasn’t he?” He laughs again—but he sounds anxious.

I remind myself that Bob is the most cautious man in the world and doesn’t know anything about DJs or marketing or parties. Even so, I can’t help feeling my own corresponding stab of anxiety. I suddenly want to confide in him. I want to wail, “Bob, I know exactly how you feel! We didn’t even need a DJ! And I don’t know what that party was for, anyway! It’s not like anything about the shop has changed, sales haven’t gone up, there aren’t any new customers … it was pointless!”

But family first.

“I think all these marketing things help,” I say at last. “You know. Profile and everything.”

“Ah,” says Bob. His mild brown eyes meet mine and I feel sure he understands everything but would never open his mouth because he’s too discreet and loyal and agreeable.

“Have all the invoices come in?” I ask. “Do we know what the total budget was?”

Mum okayed the party, I remind myself. There was nothing I could do to stop it. And, anyway, it’s not going to be a problem. It’s not going to bankrupt us. It was only a party.

“Not yet,” says Bob. “Not everything.”

“Well, keep me posted,” I say.

“Of course,” he replies with a nod.

He turns to leave and I watch him with a sigh. Now I need to go and get ready for Leila’s birthday drinks, even though the last thing I feel like is going to 6 Folds Place. The idea of dressing up feels exhausting. Let alone making conversation with Jake’s posh friends about sailing (not a clue) and makes of car (not a clue). But I promised Leila, and she’s such a sweetheart, I can’t let her down.

Anyway, there’ll be free drinks there, I remind myself as I reach for my makeup bag. Free champagne. Or cocktails, maybe. In the mood I’m in, I could do with one.

—

It’s cocktails. It’s strong, tangy, limy cocktails in martini glasses, and I seize one greedily. I have no idea what it is, only that I want to drink it. I close my eyes and glug it down and, oh my God, bliss. I haven’t had anything to eat all day and the alcohol hits my bloodstream like a drug.

Well, it is a drug, in fact. Ha.

I open my eyes and look around for someone to share this thought with, but there’s no one I really want to approach. Leila greeted me affectionately when I arrived but then went off to the ladies’ with two of her beautician friends. Jake is talking loudly to three guys in suits about his manufactured-diamonds deal. Apparently there’s been a holdup in Asia.

“I mean, this is international shipping for you,” he keeps saying in a show-offy way. “This is the reality of global trade, know what I mean?”

I have nothing to offer on the subject of global trade, so I take another cocktail. I could drink these all night, I think with each delicious gulp. In fact, I will drink them all night.

Our little party area is roped off, but there are plenty of other people around the place, sitting at tables and standing at the bar. They’re not in Leila’s party, just members of 6 Folds Place out for the evening. There’s a group of girls sitting at a table to my left, and I keep glancing at them, because that’s the table we had last time. That’s where I was sitting when Ryan brought me that bouquet of lilies and kissed me and I thought … I really thought …

A familiar stabbing pain hits me and I swivel away, grabbing yet another cocktail. Every icy swig numbs a bad feeling. The humiliation. The self-reproach. The worst thing is, everyone tried to tell me. Hannah, Mum, even Tim in his own way. They all sensed the truth about Ryan—although Hannah has told me several times during the past two miserable weeks that she had no idea he was that bad. Not that bad.

I don’t know if that’s supposed to cheer me up or not.

As I drain my glass, I suddenly see Nicole standing on the other side of Jake. I hadn’t noticed her before. She’s looking stunning in a short white fringed dress and tossing her carefully styled hair back as she talks to some tall guy. I can hear her saying, “Yeah, I’m actually suffering from separation anxiety, you know? I really have to self-care?”

I can’t face talking to her. I can’t face talking to Jake. What is wrong with me that I don’t want to talk to my own family? In slight despair I put down my empty glass. I pick up another full one, wondering if four cocktails is somehow against the law. And then I stiffen. Oh my God, oh my God. It can’t be.

But it is. It’s Seb. He’s sitting at a table some distance away, dressed in an elegant understated jacket. And he’s with a girl. A tall, confident-looking blond girl with a blunt chin-length haircut and a good manicure and a bright-green body-con dress. She looks like she could be a TV presenter. Is that his girlfriend? What’s her name again?

I rack my brains feverishly until it comes to me: Briony. Exactly. She sent him to the skiing workout guru. And there was some issue about a home gym. Is that her?

As Seb looks up to attract a waiter, I hastily hide behind a group of Jake’s friends. I don’t want him to see me. Why’s he here, anyway? I think, almost accusingly. He told Ryan this wasn’t his scene. He shouldn’t be such a hypocrite.

More to the point: What am I going to do now?

From my hiding place I peer at him again. He’s leaning forward now, his elbows on the table. He’s talking earnestly, as though he’s trying hard to get something across. And Briony is …

She’s snapping at him, I realize. She looks quite vicious. God, I wish I could lip-read. What’s she saying?

Now he’s replying … She’s interrupting … They’re having a row, I realize in astonishment. They’re actually having a row! Somehow I thought Seb wasn’t the type to have rows. Especially not in the middle of a club.

As I watch in fascination, Briony’s face twists. She spits out a whole series of words at Seb and pushes her chair back. She flings a pashmina around her shoulder and grabs her bag. She looks kind of magnificent, I can’t help thinking, in a scary-monster sort of way. She’s so glossy. She’s so self-possessed. She fires some final comment at Seb and strides out, and I exhale. That was intense. And I wasn’t even in it.

My brain is swirling with alcohol. The lights are starting to blur and I’m swaying a little. Maybe I drank those cocktails a bit too quickly. Even so, as Seb gets up from his chair, I feel suddenly alert. Hang on. Where’s he going? Which way is he walking?

Shit. He’s coming in this direction, toward the bar. Shit.

OK, quick, I need to face away from him. Away. This is crucial. Away. I look around for a solution and spy Nicole, who is on her own, talking on the phone.

“Drew, I have to go,” I hear her say. She rings off and takes a sip of her drink, staring ahead. Her jaw is tight and her eyes are narrowed and she looks quite stressed.

Yowser, I think hazily. Did she and Drew have a row?

“Hi, Nicole!” I say, stumbling over to her. “We never talk. Let’s talk. Is everything OK?”

At once she turns a defensive gaze on me. “Of course it is,” she says. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Typical. I wish just once Nicole would engage and we could have an actual conversation.

I glance over my shoulder. Seb is at the bar. He’s ordering a drink. Whiskey, looks like.

“You know, Drew adores you,” I say to Nicole. “I’m sure he does. Like, this much.” I extend my arms wide, tottering on my heels. “This much.”

“You look drunk, Fixie.” She eyes me suspiciously.

“I’m not,” I assure her. “Not at all. Not drunk,” I add for emphasis.

“You are drunk!” She stares at me. “How many drinks have you had?”

“Ten,” I say defiantly, taking a swig of cocktail. Surreptitiously I turn to check out Seb again, thinking I must be safe. But to my horror he’s turned away from the bar and his eyes meet mine. His face jerks in surprise and I quickly whip my head back round, my heart thudding.

He didn’t recognize me, I tell myself. Of course he didn’t. He couldn’t have, not in that fleeting moment. Even so, I decide to move behind Nicole so that I’m concealed. Then, in sudden inspiration, I crouch down. OK, this is good. She’s completely blocking me. Also, it’s quite comfortable, down here on my heels. The room is whirling less. It’s relaxing. Parties should have more crouching.

“What the hell are you doing?” demands Nicole.

“Shhh!” I say. “Don’t move!”

I can’t see Seb. I can’t see anything but the shifting light on Nicole’s white fringed dress in front of my eyes. It’s kind of mesmerizing, especially given that my brain seems to be doing a 360 rotation every thirty seconds.

“Look, there’s sushi,” Nicole announces suddenly. “I’m getting some.” And to my dismay, she moves away, leaving me totally exposed.

“Wait!” I cry. “Nicole! Come back!”

I try to get to my feet, but I’m stuck. What is wrong with my knees? Why won’t they work? Stupid knees. Stupid cocktails.

“Fixie?” As I hear Seb’s incredulous voice, my stomach drops. I force myself to raise my head. And there he is, standing in front of me, holding his glass and looking astonished.

He doesn’t have to look so surprised. It’s a free country.

“Oh,” I say with dignity. “Yes. Hello. I was just crouching here.”

“So I see.”

There’s silence, and I attempt to rise gracefully to my feet like a swan, but it really isn’t happening.

“May I?” He extends a hand and reluctantly I take it.

“Thank you,” I say politely as he helps me up.

“My pleasure.”

There’s silence between us, suddenly filled by music thumping from the tiny dance floor. The DJ must have started his set. Seb looks strained, I decide as I survey him. But that’s not surprising, given the ear-bashing he’s just had from Briony. If that’s who she is.

I should probably make small talk, but I’ve never been any good at that. So instead I blurt out, more forcefully than I intended, “What are you doing here? You said you never come here. You said it wasn’t your scene.”

I know I sound antagonistic, but I have good reason. If people say they don’t go to places, they shouldn’t go to them. And the truth is, seeing Seb is making me all hot and prickly. I’ve been trying so hard to put on a brave face these last two weeks. I’ve been making jokes and laughing lightly, spinning the story that Ryan and I were always a temporary fling and I’m not hurt at all. I’ve even put on the bravest face I can to Hannah.

But Seb knows. He knows. He saw me at my most vulnerable, face stricken, world crashing around me. Which is why I would rather not bump into him at clubs.

“I don’t usually,” says Seb. “And it isn’t. This is an exception. What are you doing here?”

“Drinking,” I say.

“Ah.”

“Drowning my sorrows. We have cocktails,” I add, brandishing my glass at him. “You can have one if you like. Only you have to be in our party. D’you want to come to it as my guest? I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s full of estate agents.”

Distantly, I’m aware that I’m not speaking appropriately. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Sense has taken a back seat for now. Alcohol is in charge of talking. And Alcohol says, “Woo! Anything goes!”

“Estate agents, huh?” says Seb, his mouth twitching.

“And manufactured-diamond importers,” I say, enunciating carefully. “Actually only one of those. He’s my brother. Who was that you were with?” I add. “Was it your girlfriend?”

“Yes,” he says after a pause. “Her name’s—”

“I know her name,” I interrupt triumphantly. “I overheard it in the coffee shop. It’s … Wait …” I pause, closing my eyes for a few seconds, letting the music thump through me. “Whiny.”

OK, that came out wrong.

“Not Whiny,” I say after a moment’s thought. “It’s something else.”

“Briony,” corrects Seb, his mouth twitching again.

“Briony.” I nod about fifteen times. “Yes. Sorry. Briony.” I think for a moment, then add, “You could call her Shouty.”

“What?” Seb stares at me.

“I saw her having a go at you earlier.” I wrinkle my nose. “She looked like …” Suddenly it comes to me. “Yes! She looked like a mean newsreader.” I put on an exaggerated TV voice. “ ‘Hello. This is the Mean News. You’re all rubbish and I despise you.’ ” I come to a finish and blink at him. “Sorry,” I add, as Seb opens his mouth. “I’m very sorry. That’s awful. I take it back. I shouldn’t be rude about your girlfriend. She’s probably really nice.”

“No,” says Seb evenly. “You shouldn’t be rude about my girlfriend.”

I swig my drink thoughtfully, then beckon him to lean closer and whisper confidingly in his ear, “She’s not nice, though, is she?”

“Are we really going to start assessing each other’s love choices?” says Seb tightly. “Is that a game you really want to play?”

“Why not?” I shoot back.

“Fine!” Seb’s voice rises with heat. “At least I didn’t harness my heart to a bloody con man. At least I’m not a gullible mug, making excuses for a total dickhead because I had a crush on him at school.”

“What?” I gasp so forcefully, I nearly totter over. “How did you know that?”

“You said you’ve known him since you were ten,” says Seb, shrugging. “Lucky guess.”

I feel a spike of resentment. I should never have given away even a morsel of information to this guy. I take a sip of cocktail, swill it round my mouth, and swallow it. Then I glare at him with all the venom I can muster.

“I thought you were polite,” I say in icy tones. “I was clearly misinformed.”

“I can be polite.” Now he looks amused. “When I want to be.”

“And by the way, I’m not gullible, I’m trusting.” I wave my glass vigorously at him for emphasis, spilling a few drops. “Trusting.”

“D’you want to dance?” His words take me by surprise, and I stare at him blankly, wondering if I heard right.

“Dance?” I echo at last. “You mean … dance?”

“I like dancing. D’you want to dance?”

“With you?” I peer at him.

“Yes,” he says, with elaborate patience. “With me.”

“Oh.” I take another sip, thinking about it. “No. I don’t.”

That’ll teach him.

Although, actually, I like dancing too. And this relentless thumping beat is kind of infectious.

“You don’t,” says Seb after a pause.

“No,” I say, a little defiantly. “I don’t.”

He’s taller than me and as I gaze up at him, the lights seem to halo round his head. His hair is shiny and his cheekbones are gleaming and his eyes are locked on mine in a way that’s kind of disconcerting.

I tell myself to look away, but the truth is, I don’t want to look away. I want to be drawn into his gaze.

Which is dumb. And wrong. He belongs to another woman, I remind myself sternly. He likes whiny, shouty, newsreadery-type women.

“But you owe me one,” he says, and pulls the coffee sleeve out of his jacket pocket. He flicks it thoughtfully a couple of times, then proffers it. “See?”

I glance dismissively at my own writing. “That doesn’t say anything about dancing.”

“Maybe dancing is what I want.” His eyes are still fixed on mine. “Maybe it’s all I want.”

“That’s all you want.” I force a skeptical tone. “A dance.”

The music is thudding through my bones. My blood is pulsing. My feet are twitching. The more we talk about dancing, the more I want to dance.

“That’s what I want,” says Seb, and there’s something about his voice and the way he’s looking at me that sends a sudden tremor through me.

“Fine,” I say at last, as though bestowing the hugest favor on him. “Fine.”

I follow him to the dance floor and we start to move. We don’t say a word. We don’t smile or even look at anyone else. Our eyes are locked on each other and our bodies seem naturally in synch from the minute we start.

I mean, here’s the thing. He can dance.

Song blends into song and still we keep on dancing. Lights are playing over us, turning Seb’s face into a multicolored whirl. The constant thump feels like a heartbeat. Jake and Leila come onto the dance floor and I glance over briefly, nodding hello, but I can’t disengage. I can’t shake the spell of dancing with Seb.

The longer I dance, the more I’m transfixed by him, by the intensity of his eyes, by the hint of his body under his shirt as he moves. He’s fluid and grounded all at once. Strong and lithe but not pumped up, not an extrovert, not constantly glancing around for approval like Ryan would be. Seb is focused. He’s honest. Everything he does seems natural, even the way he wipes the sweat off his brow.

I wipe my own face, mirroring his action. It is hot. We’re dancing to Calvin Harris now and I’m reflexively mouthing, How deep is your love, over and over along with the song. I can’t stop moving, I can’t stop responding to the music, but at the same time I’m aware of something that’s not quite right. The colors are blurring even more than they were before. I’m feeling pretty dizzy. I feel … not sick, exactly, but …

My stomach gives a heave. OK, I definitely feel weird.

I try to anchor myself by gazing at Seb’s face, but it’s splintering like a kaleidoscope. And my stomach is protesting about something—did I eat some bad food earlier? Why do I feel so—

Oh God.

OK, really not feeling good.

Although … does it matter?

My legs suddenly seem to be giving way beneath me, but then I don’t mind lying on the dance floor. I’m not fussy. I feel quite blissful, really, lying here under the lights. Leila’s face looms above me and I give her a beatific smile.

“Happy birthday,” I say, but she doesn’t seem to understand.

“Fixie! Oh my God, look at you!”

“Hi!” I try to wave cheerfully but my hand isn’t working.

Where is my hand? Oh my God, someone stole my hand.

“I don’t know!” I hear Seb’s voice above me. “She was fine. I mean, obviously she’d had a few—”

“Fixie!” Leila seems to be shouting from a great distance. “Fixie, are you OK? How many cocktails did you— Oh God, Jake? Jakey? I need some help here.…”

—

If there’s anything worse than waking up to a hangover, it’s waking up to a hangover at your brother’s flat and hearing how you ruined his girlfriend’s birthday and embarrassed him in front of all his friends.

My head is crashing with pain, but I can’t even take a paracetamol until Jake has stopped his tirade. Eventually he snaps, “I’ve got a meeting to go to,” as though that’s my fault too, and strides out.

“Oh, Fixie,” says Leila, giving me a glass of water and two tablets. “Don’t listen to Jake. It was quite funny, actually. D’you want some coffee?”

I totter into the living room, sink into the leather sofa (the Conran Shop one? I have no idea), and stare blankly at the massive TV screen which Jake bought last year. This whole flat is glossy and modern, with hi-tech everything. It’s in a block called Grosvenor Heights in Shepherd’s Bush (he calls it “West Holland Park”). Jake offered on it as soon as he’d landed his nude-knickers deal, and I’m sure he chose it because the word Grosvenor sounds posh.

Leila brings me in a cup of coffee, sits down next to me in her silky kimono, and starts opening birthday cards with her sharp nails.

“It was a fun evening, though, wasn’t it?” she says in her gentle voice. “Jakey spoils me, he really does. Those cocktails were lush.”

“Don’t talk about cocktails.” I wince.

“Sorry.” She laughs her rippling laugh, then puts down the card she’s holding and gives me an interested look.

“Who was the man?”

“The man?” I try to look blank.

“The man, silly! The one you were dancing with all that time. He’s nice.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Handsome.”

“Well, he’s taken,” I say quickly, before she gets any ideas.

He was carrying the coffee sleeve in his pocket, a small voice in my head points out.

But another one instantly answers: So what? He was there with his girlfriend.

“Oh.” Leila deflates. “Shame. Well, he was very concerned about you. He wanted to come and make sure you were all right, but we said don’t worry, we’re family, we’ll look after her.”

The way she says, “We’re family,” gets under my skin and makes me blink. I love Leila. She is family.

“Oh, Leila.” Impulsively, I throw my arms around her. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I spoiled everything.”

“You didn’t!” She hugs me back with her bony arms. “If I blame anyone, it’s Ryan. I said to Jakey, ‘No wonder! I’d be in a state too if the love of my life disappeared like that!’ ”

“Ryan’s not the love of my life,” I say firmly. “He’s really not.”

“He’ll be back,” says Leila wisely, and pats my knee.

I have to get it into Leila’s head that I don’t want Ryan back. But I’ll leave that for another time. I sink onto the buttery leather, cradling my coffee, and watch in a slight trance as Leila slits open each envelope, smiles at the card, puts it down, and reaches for the next one.

“Oh,” she says suddenly. “That reminds me. He left this for you.”

“Who?”

The man, silly!”

She hands me a 6 Folds Place envelope and I stare at it blankly. There’s the sound of a timer from the kitchen, and Leila gets to her feet.

“That’s my egg,” she says. “D’you want an egg, Fixie?”

“No,” I say hurriedly, my stomach heaving at the thought. “Thanks, though.”

As she leaves the room, I slowly open the envelope. There’s no note inside, just the coffee sleeve. I pull it out and stare at it. It’s been written on, in Seb’s writing:

Paid in full. With thanks.

And, underneath, his signature.

As I read his words, I feel a deep wrench of—what, exactly? I’m not sure. Wistfulness? Longing? My brain keeps flashing back to dancing with him last night. The lights playing over his face; the pounding music. His eyes on mine. The connection we had. I want somehow to go back there, to that place, to him.

But let’s get real. That’s never going to happen.

Giving myself a mental shakedown, I slide the coffee sleeve back into the envelope. It’s a souvenir, I tell myself as I fold down the flap. A fun memento. I’ll never see him again and he’ll probably marry Whiny and that’s … you know. Fine. His choice.

“Is it something interesting?” says Leila, coming back in with her egg and looking at the envelope.

“No.” I shake my head with a wry smile.

“Shall I chuck it for you, then?” she says helpfully.

She holds out her hand, and before I can stop myself I exclaim sharply, “No!”

My fingers have tightened around it. I’m not giving it up. I’m not throwing it away. Even if that doesn’t make any sense.

“I mean … don’t worry,” I add, seeing Leila’s taken-aback expression. “I think I’ll hold on to it. Just in case. You know.”

“Of course!” says Leila in her easy, unquestioning way. “Come on, share my egg with me, Fixie,” she says cozily, sitting back down beside me. “You need some food inside you. And then …” Her eyes sparkle at me. “Then we’ll do your nails.”