I Owe You One: A Novel

Fourteen

Hannah’s house is like a John Lewis catalog. All the furniture is from John Lewis, plus most of the curtains and cushions. Her wedding list was half at John Lewis and half at Farrs, and, actually, all the things blend together pretty well. They’re good quality, nothing too way out … all very tasteful.

And usually I think Hannah’s house represents her perfectly. John Lewis is such a calm, reassuring place, and Hannah’s such a calm, reassuring person. But the Hannah in front of me now is totally different. She’s on edge. Her brows are knitted. She’s pacing around her tidy white kitchen, nibbling on a carrot stick.

“He doesn’t want to know,” she’s saying. “He doesn’t want to know. I’ve tried talking to him, but it’s like he just doesn’t want to know.”

“Hannah, why don’t you sit down?” I say, because she’s a bit unnerving, pacing around like that. But she doesn’t even seem to hear me. She’s lost in her own thoughts.

“I mean, what happened to ‘for the procreation of children and their nurture’?” she suddenly says. “What happened to that?”

“Huh?” I stare at her.

“It’s from our wedding!” she says impatiently. “Marriage is, quote, ‘for the procreation of children and their nurture.’ I said that to Tim. I said, ‘Weren’t you listening to that bit, Tim?’ ”

“You quoted your wedding vows?” I say in disbelief.

“I have to get through to him somehow! What’s wrong with him?” Hannah finally sinks down at the kitchen table. “Tell me again what he said.”

“He said he’s stressed out by it all,” I say warily. “He seemed a bit overwhelmed. He said having a baby was going to be … er …”

Do not say “a nightmare.”

“What?” demands Hannah.

“Tough,” I say after a pause. “He thought it was going to be tough.”

“Well, it will be, I guess,” says Hannah, sounding upset. “But won’t it be worth it?”

“Er … I suppose so.” I bite my lip, remembering Tim’s beleaguered look. “By the way, what’s Le Mahs?”

“What?”

“Le Mahs. Or La Mars.”

“Oh, Lamaze,” says Hannah. “It’s, like, a baby system. There are Lamaze births, Lamaze toys …”

“Right. And who’s Annabel Karmel?”

“She’s the baby-puree guru,” says Hannah at once. “You need to start at six months. Ice-cube trays.”

OK, the gibberish has started again. Ice-cube trays? What’s she on about?

“Hannah,” I say carefully. “You’re not even pregnant. Why are you talking about what happens when the baby’s six months old?”

“I’m thinking ahead,” she says, as though it’s perfectly obvious. “You have to be prepared.”

“You don’t have to be that prepared. Shouldn’t you cross each bridge as you come to it?”

“No.” Hannah shakes her head adamantly. “You have to plan. You have to research. You have to start your to-do lists.”

To-do lists? Plural?

“How many lists do you have?” I ask lightly.

“Seven.”

“Seven?” I drop my coffee mug down on the table with a crash. “Hannah, you cannot have seven to-do lists for a baby that hasn’t been conceived yet! It’s insane!”

“It’s not insane!” she says defensively. “You know I like to get everything in order.”

“Show them to me,” I demand. “I want to see.”

“Fine,” says Hannah, after a pause. “They’re upstairs.”

I follow her upstairs, along her immaculate landing, to the room that I’ve always assumed will be the nursery. We enter, and my hand goes to my mouth. Oh my God.

It looks like the control center of some crime inquiry. There’s a massive pinboard on the wall, covered with file cards on which I see phrases like Research baby yoga and Second name if it’s a boy and Investigate epidural risks. Next to it are blu-tacked three dense typed-out lists, the first headed, Postpartum—to-do, the second, Education—to-do, the third, Health checks/issues—to-do.

“I mean, the main lists are on the computer,” says Hannah as she switches on the light. “This is extra stuff.”

“The main lists are … on the computer?” I echo faintly.

No wonder Tim feels overwhelmed. I feel overwhelmed. I don’t know anything about having babies, but this can’t be right.

“Hannah,” I begin—then stop, because I don’t know how to proceed. “Hannah … Why?”

“Why what?” she retorts in a snappy way that isn’t her, and I know that at last I’ve got under her skin. I take her hands and hold them firmly in mine, waiting until she meets my eye. She looks tired. And stressed. My strong, calm, super-brain friend looks vulnerable, I realize. When did she last laugh?

“Have you made to-do lists for up until the baby leaves home?” I say in gentle, teasing tones. “Have you worked out every family holiday you’ll take?” I give a sudden overdramatic gasp. “Oh my God, where will you hold its eighteenth-birthday party? Quick! Let’s google venues!”

A tinge of color comes to Hannah’s cheeks.

“You know I like breaking things down into tasks,” she mutters.

“I know you do.” I nod. “You’re kind of addicted to it.”

“I’m not addicted.” Hannah looks scandalized at the word. I can practically see her thoughts: I’m a professional woman with furniture from John Lewis! How can I be an addict?

“You kind of are,” I say, undeterred. “And this is not good for you. It’s not good for Tim.” I let go of her hands as I gesture around. “And it’s certainly not good for the baby, because at this rate, the baby’s never going to get born!”

“It’s just … challenging.” Hannah sinks down onto the bed, looking worn out. “I don’t know how people do it.”

“They’ve been doing it for centuries,” I say, sinking down beside her. “They didn’t have to-do lists in caveman times, did they?”

“They probably did,” returns Hannah, her eyes glinting. “Cave drawings are probably all to-do lists. Pick up supper. Kill mammoth. Make bearskin.”

I grin back and for a moment we’re quiet. Then I look up.

“Hannah, do you actually know anyone with a baby?”

“Well … not really,” admits Hannah after a pause. “I mean, a couple of people at work have had them. I held one once.”

“You held one baby once?” I say incredulously. “That’s it? So where did you get all this from?” I wave at the file cards.

“Online. And books. It is on my to-do list to meet real mums,” she adds defensively.

“OK,” I say. “Well, Nicole has a million friends with babies. Why don’t you meet one and ask her what it’s like? Maybe Tim could come along too. And you could both think about having an actual baby, instead of a to-do list.”

“Yes,” says Hannah. She heaves a heavy sigh and I can see her eyes traveling about the little room as though seeing it for the first time. “Yes. That would be good. That would be great, in fact. Thanks, Fixie. I’ll call Nicole.”

“I can talk to her,” I volunteer. “If that’s easier?”

“No, I’ll do it,” says Hannah, as I knew she would, because she’s like me—she does things for herself.

“Come here.” I pull her in for a hug. “I want you to relax. Both you and Tim. And you will.”

“What about you?” asks Hannah as we eventually draw apart. “I haven’t even asked about—”

“Oh, you know,” I cut her off hurriedly. “Nothing to see. All over.”

It’s nearly two weeks since that mortifying night at 6 Folds Place. I haven’t seen Jake or Leila since the morning after and I certainly haven’t heard anything from Ryan.

“Well, you know what I think,” says Hannah. And I nod because I do, and we’ve said it all, both of us.

—

I know Tim’s on his way home from work and I suspect Hannah wants to have a long talk with him, so I don’t stay for supper, even though she offers. As I step outside her front door, the air is so freezing, I gasp. It’s the coldest October on record and they’re talking about snow.

Greg loves it. He kept going outside today to survey the gray sky knowingly and using the word Snowpocalypse. I had to turn down suggestions from him that Farrs should stock balaclavas, sleds, and urine bottles (urine bottles?) from some activewear catalog that he adores.

“People are going to need this stuff,” he said about twenty times. “You wait.”

The more he pestered me, the firmer my resolve became: I am never, ever stocking a urine bottle. I don’t care if it is the Snowpocalypse. I don’t care if they were used on a genuine polar expedition, I don’t want to know.

(I must admit, I did wonder: What about girls? And I would have asked Greg, except he would have given me some frank and terrible answer which would have lodged in my brain forever.)

I walk briskly through the streets of Hammersmith and I’m nearing the tube station when I get an incoming call from Drew. I haven’t heard from him for a while.

“Drew!” I exclaim. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m good, thanks,” he says, sounding preoccupied. “Is Nicole with you, by any chance?”

“No,” I say in surprise.

“It’s just that I keep trying her phone, but she’s not picking up.”

“Oh,” I say warily. “Well, maybe her phone’s broken or something.”

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe.” Drew exhales and there’s a short silence. Quite an expensive silence, I can’t help thinking, what with him being in Abu Dhabi.

“Drew,” I venture, “is everything OK?”

“Well, not really,” says Drew heavily. “Here’s the thing. Nicole keeps saying she’ll come out and visit me here in Abu Dhabi. She promises she’ll get a flight. But then she doesn’t. Has she mentioned it to you at all?”

“No,” I admit. “But then, we don’t talk that much.”

“I know she’s really busy, being the face of Farrs and doing her yoga and all that,” he says. “And I respect that, Fixie, I do. I’m proud of her. But when I first came out here, we planned that she’d come over soon for a visit. Well, that was months ago!”

“Maybe she’s making plans I don’t know about,” I say evasively.

“Fair enough.” He sighs. “Well, sorry to bother you.”

He rings off and I walk for a while, my brow crinkled. Nicole’s never even mentioned going to Abu Dhabi. Which is pretty weird, now I think about it. Why wouldn’t she go and visit her own husband who she misses so much?

I’m just reminding myself that other people’s relationships are a mystery and there’s no point speculating about them, when my phone bleeps with a text. I look down, expecting it to be Hannah or maybe Drew again—but it’s from him. Seb. And it’s just one word:

Help.

Help?

I stare at it, disconcerted, then ring his number. It rings and rings and I’m expecting it to go to voicemail, but then suddenly his voice is in my ear.

“Oh, hello,” he says, sounding taken aback and kind of strained. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. D’you mind— I’m slightly in the middle of something—”

“Are you OK?” I say, a bit bewildered. “You texted me Help.”

“I texted you?” He curses. “I’m so sorry. I meant to text my assistant, Fred. Must have pressed the wrong number. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

“Of course not,” I say, my brow creasing. “Of course you haven’t.” But I feel a bit perplexed. Why would he text his assistant Help? “Are you sure you’re OK?” I add impulsively.

“I’ve … I’ve been better,” says Seb after a pause, and now he sounds breathless. “Been attacked, actually. My fault for cutting behind the Horizon. It’s always been a dodgy alley.”

“Attacked?” I nearly drop my phone in horror. “Are you— What happened?”

“It’s really nothing,” he says at once. “Some guys decided they wanted my wallet, that’s all. Only I seem to have done in my ankle, and I can’t move and I’m a bit out of the way here. Thankfully they were too repelled by my ancient phone to take that.”

He’s lying in an alley and he’s been mugged and he’s making jokes about his phone. I half want to smile and half want to yell, “Take this seriously!”

“Have you dialed 999?” I ask. “What have you done?”

“Dialed 999?” Seb sounds horrified at the idea. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I just need to get to a hospital. Fred will come and pick me up; he lives in Southwark. It’s two minutes from Bermondsey. That’s where I am,” he adds as an afterthought.

“So why haven’t you called him?” I demand, sounding almost aggressive in my worry.

“I tried,” says Seb patiently. “Then I texted him, or so I thought. If I can’t get through to Fred, I have a lot of other willing colleagues and friends I can easily reach, if you could kindly get off the line—”

“Oh,” I say. “Yes. Of course. Sorry.”

But I don’t want to get off the line. I don’t feel happy about this. What if he can’t get through to Fred?

“You should dial 999,” I say.

“The 999 service is overstretched,” says Seb, his voice coming in little fits and jerks. “Don’t you read the papers? It’s for real emergencies. I’m not dying; I’m not having a baby; I’m not stuck up a tree. But I would quite like to get through to my assistant, so I’m going to ring off now. Bye.”

The line goes dead and I stare at my phone, my heart thumping and thoughts jostling in my head.

I mean, it’s his life.

And I’m sure he’s right: He’s got loads of friends who will pop straight round in their car, scoop him up, and take him to hospital. He’ll be on the phone by now. They’ll be getting in their car. It’ll all be fine.

Do not interfere, Fixie. Do not interfere.

I put my phone in my pocket, exhale loudly, walk three steps—then stop dead. My fingers are drumming against each other. Now my feet start pacing: forward-across-back, forward-across-back.

I can’t not do something, I can’t, I can’t.

Hurriedly, I find Google Maps, search the Horizon in Bermondsey—it turns out to be a cinema—and locate the alley Seb must be in. Hook Alley, that has to be it. Then I haul my phone out, dial 999, and wait to be connected. Just the act of dialing reminds me of when Mum collapsed, and I feel fresh shoots of anxiety.

“Hello,” I say, as soon as I hear an operator’s voice. “I need ambulance and police. The address is Hook Alley, Bermondsey. There’s an injured person and he needs help and he was mugged and … please hurry. Please.”

They keep me on the line for what seems like ages, asking me questions I can’t possibly answer. But at last they tell me to please keep this phone with me and that the services have been alerted. I ring off, then frantically flag down a taxi. I can’t risk the tube—no signal—and I need to get to Hook Alley.

As we set off, I call Seb’s number, but it goes straight to busy. What’s he busy doing? Being rescued?

Will he be furious that I called 999?

Well, I don’t care. Let him be furious.

It takes forty-five minutes to reach Bermondsey, and I sit tensely for the whole journey. As I scramble out at Hook Alley, I’m half expecting to see blue lights, but there’s no ambulance in sight. There’s crime tape, though, and a few people loitering about, gawking even despite the cold, plus a couple of police officers guarding the scene. As I try to get near, I feel a horrible dread looming.

“Hi,” I say to the nearest police officer, who seems engrossed in his walkie-talkie. “I made the call; it was me.…” My voice is disintegrating breathlessly, but for once it’s not because of Jake; it’s because of fear. “Is he OK?”

“Excuse me,” says the police officer, not seeming to hear me, and heads off to consult his partner. I’m desperate to clamber under the crime tape, but I’ve seen enough TV shows to know what happens if you do that. The scene gets contaminated and the court throws out the case, and there’s no justice, and grieving families yell at you.

So instead I stand there, almost hyperventilating, needing to know: Where is he? How is he? What happened?

Abruptly, I realize I’ve been muttering aloud, and a nearby man has heard me. He’s a broad gray-haired guy in a massive puffer jacket and seems to be standing there for no other reason except to watch.

“Beat him up, they did,” he says in an accent which reminds me so strongly of Dad, I feel a sudden visceral pang. “He was out like a light. Wheeled him off on a stretcher. I saw it.”

Tears of shock start to my eyes. Out like a light?

“But he was conscious!” I say. “I was talking to him! How could he— What happened?”

The man shrugs. “He had rubbish all over him too. They emptied a bin on him, I guess. They’re animals, they are. If I had my way they’d get what’s coming to ’em. Forget parole, for a start,” he adds, warming to his theme. “None of this nancy-boy treatment. Send ’em all on National Service, that’d sort ’em out—”

“Sorry,” I interrupt desperately. “Sorry. I just really need to know where they’ve taken him. Which hospital. Do you have any idea?”

The man’s mouth twitches. He doesn’t say anything but takes a few paces to the corner and swivels his head meaningfully. I follow him, then turn my own head—and find myself staring at the top of a building. Distinctive metal letters are illuminated against the evening sky and they read: THE NEW LONDON HOSPITAL.

Of course. I’m so stupid.

“Won’t have taken him nowhere else, will they?” says the man. “Emergency’s round the back. Don’t even try to get a cab,” he adds. “The one-way round here’s a shocker. Quicker to walk.”

“Thanks,” I gasp, already hurrying away. “Thanks so much. Thanks.”

I sprint through the back streets, panting in the freezing air, not stopping until my heart feels it will explode. Then I walk for a bit, then run again, then get lost under a railway arch. But finally I make it to the bright lights and bustle of the New London Hospital’s emergency room.

As I step inside, the hospital smell hits me first. Then the noise. I know emergency rooms are always busy, but … bloody hell. This is mayhem. Far worse than when we took Mum in. There are people everywhere. All the plastic chairs are full, and a guy with a gash on his forehead is sitting on the floor nearby. About three babies are howling, and a man with vomit on his jacket is drunkenly berating his … Is that gray-haired, anxious-looking woman his mother?

Averting my eyes, I head to the desk and wait for what seems like an eternity before a brisk woman says, “Can I help?”

“Hi, I’m here for Sebastian Marlowe. Has he been admitted?”

The woman types at her computer, then raises her head and gives me a suspicious look.

“He was admitted earlier,” she says. “He’s been sent for tests.”

“What kind of tests?” I ask anxiously. “I mean, is he … Will he be …”

“You’ll have to speak to a doctor,” she says. “Are you family?”

“I … Not exactly … I know him, though. I made the 999 call.”

“Hmm. Well, if you wait, you can speak to the doctor who— Oh, you’re in luck. Lily!”

She beckons over a pretty Asian-looking doctor, who seems so rushed off her feet, I can hardly bear to hold her up. But I have to know.

“Hello, can I help?” she says charmingly.

“Sorry to delay you,” I say in a rush. “I’m here about Sebastian Marlowe. I’m the one who called 999. I just need to know, will he be OK? I mean, is he—”

“Please don’t worry,” she says, gently cutting me off. “He regained consciousness soon after arrival. We’re giving him a CAT scan, though, as a precaution, and taking a couple of X-rays. He’s in good hands and I suggest you go home. Tomorrow he’ll be on a ward, and if you want to, you can visit then. He’s very lucky that you phoned 999,” she adds. “Good job.”

She smiles again and is moving off, when something else occurs to me.

“Wait!” I say, hurrying after her. “Am I the only person who knows he’s here? Do his next of kin … does anyone else know?”

He doesn’t have any family, I’ve suddenly remembered, and the thought makes my throat constrict. Here he is, beaten up in hospital, with no family, no one at all—

“I’m fairly sure one of the nurses made a call for him,” says the doctor, crinkling her brow in thought. “She spoke to his … girlfriend?”

The word stops me short. Girlfriend.

I mean, of course. His girlfriend. Whiny. He has her. She’ll be the one he wants to see.

“Great!” I say a little heartily. “Perfect. His girlfriend. That’s—yes. Well. So. My work is done. I’ll just—so. I’ll go home, then.”

“As I say, he’ll be on a ward tomorrow,” she says kindly. “Why not come back then?”

As she meets my gaze with her wise doctor’s eyes, I have a weird conviction that she gets it. She somehow understands that I have to know how Seb is, because I feel this strange, inextricable link to him. Which isn’t a relationship—God, of course not. We’re not even friends, really. It’s just … it’s a different kind of thing. A yearning. A tugging in my heart. A need to be with him and know that he’s OK. I mean, what would you call that?

I blink and meet the doctor’s patient gaze again. Does she understand it all?

Or am I projecting?

OK, I’m projecting. She’s just waiting for me to go away. God, Fixie, get a grip.

“Thanks,” I say for a final time. “Thanks so much.” And I head out of the hospital before I can catch a superbug.

He’s safe. That’s all I needed to know. And Whiny will visit him tomorrow. Or his friends will, or whatever. So, really, there’s no need for me to. That’s the end. Job done.