I Owe You One: A Novel

Twenty-two

Uncle Ned has booked yet another grand restaurant for our meeting, this one on Piccadilly. As I’m on the way there, I cut through a shopping arcade to get out of the freezing cold and am immediately hit by warmth and light and a smell of cinnamon. The marble-floored atrium is filled with pop-up stalls selling scented candles and seasonal goods. Christmas songs are blaring through the sound system. A full-sized snowman is wandering around, making children laugh. It’s all very festive, only I don’t feel in a festive mood. I feel jagged and angry.

I’m striding along, practicing what I’ll say to Jake, ignoring invitations to try out smoothies and massage chairs—when a familiar voice hits my ears and I stop dead. No way.

No way.

“I’m a makeup artist,” he’s saying. “And you have a really interesting face, did you know that?”

I swivel slowly on my heel, and there he is. Ryan Chalker. As handsome as ever, wearing a black shirt and trousers, standing next to a pop-up stall covered in pots of face cream.

I wait for the familiar reaction to hit me. I wait for my breath to shorten and my heart to swoop. But the magic has gone. After all these years, the magic has gone. All I can see is a smooth-faced chancer. He’s addressing a frowsy-looking woman in a parka, and I can tell, he’s getting through to her.

“You remind me of this model I used to work with on magazine shoots,” he says brazenly, and I breathe in sharply with indignation. Since when did Ryan work on magazine shoots as a makeup artist?

“Really?” I can see the woman blossoming under his compliments.

“You have beautiful skin,” he assures her. “But I bet your husband tells you that every day.”

God, he’s good. Of course the husband never says a word to her, and now this woman is putty in Ryan’s hands.

“Who does your eyebrows?” he demands now.

“I do,” she admits.

“No.” Ryan’s eyes widen. “They’re amazing! Don’t let anyone touch them. Are you over thirty-five?”

“A bit.” The woman flushes.

I mean, she’s about fifty. Even I can tell that.

“Not by much,” says Ryan firmly. “So tell me, darling, do you use eye cream?”

“A bit.” Her eyes swivel evasively. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Ryan looks devastated. “Sweetheart, look after your skin. I don’t care whose products you use, but for me, start using eye cream, yeah? I’m going to give you a free sample …” He’s swiftly undoing a little pot. “Can I put this on you? You don’t mind?”

He smears some goo on the woman’s face, then brandishes a mirror at her. “Can you see that? Can you see the transformation? And that’s on one use! It’s not surgical, but it’s surgical.”

It’s not surgical, but it’s surgical? Is he even allowed to say that?

I’m bristling with outrage as I watch. That woman has so not been transformed, but she’s gazing at herself, transfixed. I don’t know what Ryan’s doing with angles or lights or simply the power of suggestion, but it’s working.

“And we’re doing two pots for the price of one today,” he says smoothly. “You know what an eye lift costs? You know how many thousands? This is a tenth of the price.”

He shows the woman a price list and she blanches. At once Ryan says, lowering his voice, “You know what? I shouldn’t do this, but just for you, let’s knock ten percent off. I’ll get in trouble, but … hey. It’s Christmas.”

“Really?” The woman looks at him so trustingly that I can’t bear it any longer.

“Hi there!” I say brightly, striding up to them, and Ryan gives such a startled jump, I grin inwardly.

“Oh, hello,” says the woman, looking disconcerted.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’d hold off if I were you,” I say pleasantly. “I once bought some eye cream from some random person in a mall and it gave me hives. I’m sure this nice man will give you some samples and you can try them properly at home. Maybe get another opinion from a friend before you lash out all that money?” I smile sweetly at Ryan. “Wouldn’t you agree, sir? With all your experience as a ‘makeup artist’?”

“Actually, I should be going,” says the woman, looking flustered. “Thanks anyway,” she says over her shoulder to Ryan as she hurries off.

“ ‘Makeup artist,’ ” I say scathingly. “You’re evil.”

Ryan stares at me consideringly for a moment, then throws his head back and laughs.

“Fixie,” he says. “You’ve got such a good conscience. You make me feel like a better person.” And he smiles at me, his eyes as devastatingly blue as ever.

Once upon a time, that smile would have made my heart flutter. My doubts would have receded; I would have run back to him. But not today.

“Well, you make me feel like a worse person,” I say coldly, and Ryan laughs again.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, and I stare at him in disbelief. He’s missed me? I feel a sudden furious urge to yell at him, to hit him, to make him suffer.

But almost at once it subsides. Ryan’s pathological, I’ve realized. He says anything to anyone to get out of whatever situation he’s in. Truth doesn’t count, integrity doesn’t count, love doesn’t even figure. Yelling at him would be like yelling at a rock. It’s never going to change.

I’m just glad the magic has gone. I’m free of him. About bloody time.

“I’m not going to say, ‘See you,’ ” I inform him politely. “Because I don’t want to see you, ever again. Goodbye.”

As I walk off I can hear him laughing again, only the sound is a little more forced, and I briefly wonder if there’s any kind of regret or understanding in his eyes. But I honestly can’t be bothered to look.

—

And then I’ve reached the entrance to the restaurant and my heart is pounding. Because standing up to Ryan was like a warm-up, but this is the real deal.

The maître d’ shows me to our table, where I find Uncle Ned lounging on a banquette, holding what looks like a gin and tonic. Jake is holding one too, and Nicole has a glass of what I’m sure is champagne.

“Fixie!” Uncle Ned greets me. “Take a seat. Have a drink, m’dear.” His face is nearly as red as the velvet seat. Did he start early? Looking around at the flushed faces, I wonder: Did they all start early? Jake’s eyes are bloodshot, I notice, and he still has those shadows under them.

“What?” he says defensively, as he feels my eyes on him. “Oh, by the way, I’ve got some good news for you. Ryan’s back in London.”

“I’ve just seen him,” I say shortly as I take a chair. “And it’s not good news.”

“Now, I rather like the look of the porterhouse steak,” says Uncle Ned, squinting at a big leather menu.

I bet he bloody does, I think—but force myself to stay calm. I’m a ninja, sizing up my opponents, slow and focused, before I strike.

“Would you like a drink?” a waiter asks me.

“No, thanks,” I say politely, and wait till he’s gone before adding, “I won’t spend Farrs’ money here. This is totally inappropriate. Totally inappropriate,” I repeat for emphasis, and jab at all their expensive drinks with my finger.

“What?” says Nicole blankly.

“Inappropriate?” splutters Uncle Ned.

“What exactly are we achieving here, except spending money?” I look from face to face. “Nothing.”

“Now, really.” Uncle Ned’s face becomes puce. “Here I am, giving freely of my time and advice—”

“Do you even know how our sales are doing?” I cut him off, sweeping my gaze around the table. “Do any of you? But here you all are, ordering cocktails and steak. It’s freeloading and it’s revolting and I’m not doing it.”

“What the fuck!” exclaims Jake, staring at me. “What’s got into you?”

“It’s her new boyfriend,” says Nicole, in sudden inspiration. “That’s what it is. He’s put her up to it.”

“What new boyfriend?” Jake swivels to face her.

“Sebastian Whatsit. The guy who was Ryan’s boss? She’s, like, practically living with him.”

“You’re going out with him?” says Jake incredulously. “The investment guy?”

“That’s irrelevant,” I say shortly. “And I have some other things to say.”

My words are hovering in a thought bubble, like they always are, all neatly formed. Come on, Ninja Fixie. Say them.

I draw breath—then make the mistake of glancing at Jake. His face is so aggressive that for a moment I can feel the old feelings resurfacing. Inadequate. Guilty. Inferior. Rubbish.

But I have to punch through those feelings. Go, Fixie, go.

“Nicole, you have to cancel all your yoga,” I say firmly. “It’s disruptive and it hasn’t attracted any new customers; it’s just made problems. It has to stop and I’m restocking the shop, my way.”

Pow.

“Disruptive?” says Nicole, sounding offended.

“Yes, disruptive. And, Jake, for you I have a question.” I turn to him, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Why are you borrowing so much money from Farrs and when are you paying it back and why wasn’t it mentioned at the last meeting?”

Bam.

I can see the light of shock in Jake’s eyes, but almost at once he’s regained his swaggering demeanor.

“It’s an inter-business loan,” he drawls, taking a sip of his drink. “Really, Fixie, you are getting your knickers in a twist.”

“I didn’t know we could take out loans,” says Nicole with interest. “That’s cool.”

“We can’t!” I practically shout. “Why do you need loans from Farrs, anyway, Jake?” I say in a calmer, more diplomatic voice. “What’s going on? Why didn’t you just say to us this was happening? And why keep it from Mum?”

I lean forward, trying to get through to the man I saw the other day. The one who talked to me with respect and affection, who felt like a real brother.

But that Jake has vanished. This one won’t even meet my eye.

“Nothing’s ‘going on,’ ” he says with elaborate sarcasm. “I’ve had a holdup in Asia. It’s simply a cash-flow thing.” He sounds dismissive, although I can see his fingers clenching the menu tightly and a vein throbbing at his temple. “You’re really quite unsophisticated, Fixie. Do you have any idea about global export deals? No. So take it from me, there’s nothing to worry about. Now, are we going to order some food?”

“Yes,” says Uncle Ned emphatically.

Is that all they can think about? Food? My attempt at calmness instantly vanishes. I’m going to punch and kick as hard as I can.

“You’re all users!” I spit. “You’re only interested in how much expensive food you can eat. Porterhouse steak? At …” I grab the menu, to check the price. “At thirty quid? This is Mum’s business! Not a piggy bank!”

“And this is a business dinner!” says Jake.

“You treat the business like a joke!” I retort. “You don’t care about it! How many times have you been to the shop since Mum went away, Uncle Ned? Once?”

“After all I’ve done for you!” huffs Uncle Ned, looking livid. “After your father died—”

“Oh, that’s right, you negotiated our lease,” I cut in scathingly. “Did you really, Uncle Ned? Or did Bob have anything to do with it?”

“I have never been so offended in my life!” Uncle Ned’s voice is trembling with fury. He thumps down his drink and shoots a glare at me. “I don’t have to be here, you know. I’m giving up my time, simply out of the goodness of my heart, simply because your mother asked me to, because every organization needs a Man of the House—”

“Not us,” I cut him off. “Mum was mistaken. We don’t need a Man of the House.” And I stare at him silently, steel in my eyes.

Kapow.

“I’m going!” says Uncle Ned, his fleshy neck wobbling as he gets to his feet. “I won’t take this anymore. Never been so offended,” he mutters as he heads toward the exit. “Never been so insulted.”

“Oh my God,” says Nicole, as she watches him leave. “You’ve started something now, Fixie.”

“Good,” I say, unrepentant. “I wanted to start something.”

“Fixie, cut it out,” says Jake, sounding properly irate. “You’re embarrassing yourself and us.”

“I’m not. I just want a few answers. Why are you borrowing all that money, Jake? What’s it for? When will you pay it back? What exactly have you told Mum?”

“For God’s sake!” Jake almost shouts, as though I’ve scalded him. “Why are you so obsessed? The business will be ours one day. What’s the difference?”

“Mum might want to sell it! That’s her retirement fund! We have to keep it safe!” I swivel to Nicole. “Did you know Jake was taking so much money out of the business?”

“No,” says Nicole with a shrug. “I mean, like, that’s really …”

“As I say, it’s a business-to-business loan,” says Jake tightly, and takes another swig of his drink. “It’s perfectly standard.”

“But why can’t you go to the bank?” I persist. “Why do you need to keep raiding Farrs? I mean, once I get, but three times?”

For a moment Jake looks as though he wants to hit me, almost. But he reins it in and even manages a taut smile, though his eyes are incandescent with fury.

“You really don’t understand anything, do you?” he says. “Poor naïve little Fixie. Have a drink. Calm down.”

“No, thanks.” I meet his gaze evenly. “I’m not drinking overpriced cocktails on Mum’s expense. And I’m not ‘Little Fixie.’ If you won’t talk about it properly, I’ll leave. But I haven’t finished,” I add, looking from face to face. “This isn’t over.”

Bam. Kapow. Crunch.

As I stride out of the restaurant, adrenaline is rushing through me, and I’m breathing hard. I don’t quite know what to think. Did I achieve anything just now, except offend Uncle Ned and make a fool of myself? Was that a success or a fail?

I stand on the pavement for a while, the icy wind in my face, trying to sort out my jumbled thoughts and make a plan for what to do next. Go back to Seb’s is the obvious one. Have some food. Relax. I’ve said my piece; what more can I do right now?

But for some reason I don’t move. And gradually I become aware that my fingers are drumming in the way they do. My feet have started pacing: forward-across-back, forward-across-back.

Something’s bugging me. What’s bugging me?

It’s Jake, I suddenly realize. His strained face. That vein throbbing at his temple. His raw anger. The way he batted me away, again and again.

I’m used to Jake being impatient and sarcastic. But I’m not used to him looking like a cornered tiger. He looked evasive. He looked on the edge. Amid the flashes of anger, I realize, I saw flashes of fear.

A bad feeling is coming over me. I think for a few moments, then pull out my phone and dial a number.

“Oh, hi,” I say when it’s answered. “Is that you, Leila?”

—

As Leila opens the front door, my heart drops. She looks shrunken and there are shadows under her eyes too.

“Hi, Leila!” I clasp her warmly, and I swear she’s lost half a stone. “It’s been ages! I just fancied a manicure.”

“I thought you were having dinner with Jakey?” she says, looking anxiously past me as though expecting to see Jake too.

“I left them to it,” I say easily. “You know what they’re like. Six bottles of wine each.”

“I’ve told Jake to stop drinking,” says Leila, and her face becomes even more drawn and I feel a swell of panic, because none of this feels good. I follow Leila into the living room and stop dead at the sight of the big empty wall in front of me, wires trailing from four points.

“What’s happened to the telly?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Are you getting a new one?”

The words are out before I have a horrible, sinking suspicion.

“It went,” says Leila, after a pause. She picks up a plastic bowl from the coffee table and gestures to the sofa. “Sit down. I’ll get some warm water.”

“It ‘went’?”

“They took it away.” She flashes me a smile, which I don’t believe in for a moment. “It’s fine, I watch all the soaps on my laptop.”

I sit down warily, looking around at Jake’s flash pad, full of leather and glass and glossy magazines. It always seemed like the pinnacle of achievement, this flat. Now it all seems kind of … perilous.

As Leila sits down and instructs me to put my hands in the bowl of water, I eye her closely. She looks on edge. Frail, almost. I don’t want to freak her out by firing questions at her, but I have to know. I have to know.

“Leila,” I say, in my quietest voice. “Is Jake in trouble?”

For a long time, Leila doesn’t answer. She’s washing my hands, rhythmically, her gaze distant. Then she raises her head.

“Oh, Fixie,” she says in a trembling voice, and the look in her huge eyes makes me suddenly fearful. “Of course he is. But he won’t admit it. He won’t talk about it. I only hear bits and pieces. I’ve said to him, ‘Jakey, what’s going on?’ But he gets so angry.…” She adds, more calmly, “If you could place your right hand on the towel?”

As she starts on my cuticles, I say, “He’s been taking money from Farrs.”

“Taking money?” Leila’s eyes widen. “Stealing?”

“No, not stealing,” I hastily assure her. “Just loans. But what I don’t get is, why does he need them?”

“He can’t get finance.” Leila’s hands quiver as she dunks my fingers back in the bowl. “That’s all he talks about, getting finance. If you could please place your other hand on the towel?”

“But I thought everything was going well? I thought he was doing something with manufactured diamonds?”

At once Leila starts. Her hands quiver even more and her eyelids flutter.

“Would you like me to clip or file?” she says, her voice jumpy.

“Er … don’t mind. You choose.”

I wait while she gets out her manicure implements and lays them carefully on the towel, side by side, as though trying to impose order on the world. Then finally she meets my eye.

“He doesn’t know I know this,” she practically whispers. “But the diamonds were a scam.”

“A scam?”

Leila nods, and for a moment we stare at each other. My mind is processing what a scam might mean. How damaging it might have been. How humiliating.

“Did he lose …” I can’t even say it.

“Loads,” she says, her voice not working properly. “He’s in big trouble. But he won’t see it, he won’t stop spending money, taking people out for lunch, trying to be flash …” Her eyes fill with tears and I stare at her, aghast. “Oh. We haven’t chosen you a color yet. I’ve got a lovely new amber shade. I think it would really suit you.”

She pulls her case of nail polishes onto her knee and a tear drips down onto it.

“Oh, Leila …” I put a hand on her arm, but she shoots me a bright smile.

“Or lilac,” she says, opening the lid. “With your lovely dark eyes. Or classic red?”

“Leila …” I squeeze her. “He’s so lucky to have you.”

“Oh, I don’t do anything,” says Leila, patting at her eyes. “I just do my nails and keep my head down. That’s it. Nails. That’s my life. But I understand nails,” she adds, looking up with a sudden passion. “I understand how I’m earning my wage. I give you a manicure; you pay me. That makes sense. Whereas what Jakey does …”

“What does he do?” I ask, because it’s something I’ve often wondered. “I mean, his MBA course, obviously …”

“Oh, he dropped out of that months ago,” says Leila. “He said the tutors were all useless.”

I should feel shocked, but somehow I don’t. Not now.

“He talks as though he’s still doing it,” I say. “Mum thinks he’s still doing it. Everyone does.”

“I know.” Leila bites her lip. “I’ve said to him, ‘Jakey, you should tell your family.’ ”

He dropped out of his MBA but he didn’t volunteer to do any more work at the shop, I silently register. Yet he’s taken all these loans from it.

“So what does he do all day?” I persist. “How does he make all his money?”

“He made a lot out of those nude knickers,” says Leila, her brows winged anxiously. “That was a good deal. They were a good product. I wear them myself!” she adds, with a brief show of brightness. “But ever since then …” She trails into silence.

“But that was two years ago.” I stare at her. “Hasn’t he done any more deals since then? I thought …”

Jake talks as though he’s made a million deals, each more profitable than the last. He drops constant references to “export” and “my latest venture” and deals which are “on the horizon.” We’ve never questioned him, we’ve only listened, awed.

Leila still hasn’t replied. She’s busying herself with bottles of topcoat.

“Leila?” I say more urgently. “Has he?”

“I don’t think so,” she whispers at last. “He just has lunch with people. That’s what I don’t get. How does having lunch earn you money?” she says in sudden bewilderment. “I like a job I can see.” She pats her manicure case. “I like work. So, if you give me your right hand again …” she adds, in her manicurist’s voice.

I watch silently as she starts filing my nails. The rhythmic action of her file is kind of mesmerizing and soothing. It’s reassuring. For both of us, I suspect.

“I knew he was stressed out,” I say after a while. “But I had no idea …”

“He’s secretive,” says Leila. “He doesn’t even tell me everything. He wants everyone to think he’s …” She pauses as though thinking how to put it. “Winning. Master of the universe.”

“I thought maybe he was burned out from too many deals.”

“It’s the opposite!” Leila replies, her voice wavering between a sob and a laugh. “It’s not enough deals! It’s no income! Nothing to pay the mortgage!”

“But you’re still with him?” I blurt out the question before I can stop myself. For a moment Leila stops filing my nails and I worry that I’ve offended her. But when she looks up, her gaze is nothing but wistful.

“Jake’s been good to me. I’m not going to abandon him, just because …” She hesitates, her eyes dimming slightly. “I know some people find him a bit … much. But he’s got a softer side, you know.”

“I know.” I nod.

“Jakey talks about life. He has interesting ideas. He’s fun. He wants to do things, you know? Some men, they don’t want to do anything or go anywhere.”

“Jake’s never had that problem,” I say in wry tones, and Leila smiles, then wipes her wet eyes and resumes filing.

When both my hands are done, she pats them dry and starts to apply a base coat.

“Did you choose a color yet?” she asks, and I point randomly to the lilac nail polish.

“Lovely choice!” says Leila, and she starts to unscrew the pot. And we’re both so calm and peaceful now, I almost don’t want to ruin the atmosphere, but I have to ask one more question.

“So what’s Jake going to do now?”

Leila exhales in a shuddery breath and stares down at the nail-polish pot, blinking hard.

“Get some money from somewhere,” she says at last. “I said to him, ‘Jakey, get a job! A job!’ But you know what he’s like.…”

“Where will he get more money?” I say bluntly.

Slowly, Leila’s skinny arms and shoulders rise up in the most hopeless shrug I’ve ever seen. For a few moments we’re both silent, because what is there to say? Then Leila’s eyes brighten.

“I could put a shimmer on top of the lilac,” she says. “I’ve got a lovely new product, shall I show you?”

I know displacement when I see it. Her hands are trembling as she reaches for the pot and her eyes are shadowy and I decide we’ve talked enough about Jake.

“That sounds amazing,” I say, as warmly as I can. “Leila, you’re brilliant.”

And she is brilliant. As I’m heading to Seb’s later, I keep staring at my immaculate shimmery lilac nails and thinking, I should get Leila to do this every week.

But that’s only about 5 percent of my brain. The rest is remembering Jake’s angry bravado. And Leila’s shadowy eyes. And that bare wall with wires hanging out of it. All my adrenaline from earlier on has seeped away, leaving me flatter than I’ve been for ages. I feel pale and washed out and strained.

Seb buzzes me in and I travel up in the lift to his flat. He’s waiting there, the front door flung open.

“So, did you do it?” he asks at once, his face bright and expectant. “Were you Ninja Fixie?”

I stare at him for a moment, rewinding to the restaurant. Yes, I was assertive. I said what I thought. I was Ninja Fixie. But that all seems dwarfed now by my discoveries about Jake.

“Yes!” I say. “Kind of. Uncle Ned was offended. He stormed out.”

“Excellent!” Seb grins. “Every good shareholders’ meeting needs someone storming out in dudgeon. Come on, sit down and relax. You look knackered.” He kisses me and ushers me in, and I follow, my head still trying to make sense of the evening.

“Oh, you’ll never guess what,” I say, suddenly remembering. “I saw Ryan.”

“Ryan?” Seb echoes, his face instantly tightening, and I immediately regret mentioning him.

“Only for, like, a nanosecond,” I say quickly. “I definitely put him straight.”

“Good,” says Seb, after a pause. “Glad to hear it. So, a good evening?”

I sink down at his little kitchen table, feeling my last vestiges of energy slip away. “Actually, no. It was awful.”

I fight an urge to burst into tears. I think a kind of delayed shock is hitting me. Shock at Jake’s aggression toward me. Shock at the truth behind it.

“Awful?” Seb hands me a glass of wine. “Why?”

“Thanks,” I say. “It’s … well, it’s Jake.”

“What about Jake?”

I hesitate, sipping the wine, trying to work out what to say. I can’t blurt out that Jake’s in debt. Leila told me in confidence and he’s family and it might not be as bad as she thinks and … I just can’t, not even to Seb.

“He’s got some issues,” I say at last. “Work issues. It’s all quite worrying.”

“Right,” says Seb carefully. “But that’s his problem, isn’t it? Not yours?”

“But it involves Mum,” I say despairingly. “I have to do something, but I don’t know what.…” I rub my face. “Everything’s got worse than I thought.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Seb peers at me anxiously for a moment, then reaches for a plate on the counter. “Have some fudge.”

I stare incredulously at the crumbly, delicious-looking cubes. “Is that homemade fudge?”

“I thought you might like a treat when you got back. I like making fudge,” Seb adds with a shrug. “It’s easy. I’ve been making it since I was seven.”

I take a piece and put it in my mouth and it’s like a burst of comfort. Sweet, rich, total indulgence.

“Thank you,” I say, after a few moments of chewing. “Thank you for making me fudge.”

“Well, you did save my life,” says Seb, glancing at the coffee sleeve, which is just visible in my tote bag. “Fudge is the very least I owe you.” He shoots me a teasing grin, but this time I don’t smile back. I don’t know why, but his words have flicked me on the raw. I can’t smile. I can’t joke. I don’t find the coffee sleeve charming or amusing anymore; I find it grating.

I finish my piece of fudge, then say, without looking at him, “Are we going to do this forever?”

“Do what?” Seb sounds confused.

“Tit for tat. I owe you. You owe me. Would you have made me fudge if I hadn’t saved your life?”

“Of course!” Seb gives a shocked laugh. “It’s only a joke!”

“Well, maybe I’m tired of the joke,” I say, still staring down at the table. “Is it never going to end? You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours? Backward and forward, totting up what we owe each other, and we’d better settle up or else?”

I’m speaking faster and faster, and my face is getting hot. I don’t feel totally in control of myself.

“Fixie,” says Seb. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know exactly,” I say miserably. “But I wish you’d just said, ‘I’ve made you some fudge.’ The end.”

“I think you’re overreacting,” says Seb, a hint of impatience in his voice. “All friends do favors for each other.”

“Maybe they do, but they’re not counted out. They’re not itemized. They’re not presented on a spreadsheet.”

“No one’s got a spreadsheet, for God’s sake!” exclaims Seb angrily.

“What’s this?” Getting to my feet, I take the coffee sleeve out of my tote bag and brandish it at him.

“For fuck’s sake!” Seb sounds hurt. “I thought it was fun.”

“Well, I thought so too,” I say, my voice trembling. “But it doesn’t feel like fun anymore.”

“Why not?” he demands, almost furiously.

“Because I want to love you!”

My words spill out before I can stop them, and at once I catch my breath. I’m about to say hurriedly, “I didn’t mean it,” but that would be a lie. Because I did mean it. So I just stand there, panting slightly, my face turning deep crimson.

“Well, I want to love you,” says Seb, after what seems like an endless pause. “Is there a problem with that?”

My stomach starts turning over painfully. We hadn’t ever used the word love, and now we’ve both said it. Seb’s eyes meet mine, infinitely affectionate and warm, and I know this is my cue to run into his arms and forget everything else … but I can’t. I have to make my point.

“There’s a problem with this!” I jab despairingly at the coffee sleeve. “Love isn’t transactional! It’s not about what can you do for each other.” I gaze at him, desperate for him to understand. “Love means all debts are off.”

“Well, they are off!”

“They’re not! Even if I get rid of this”—I thrust the coffee sleeve back into my tote bag, then jab my head—“they’re here!”

For a moment we’re silent. The air between us is crackling with tension. I feel like love is on the other side of an invisible wall and neither of us knows how to get there.

“What do you want from me, Fixie?” says Seb at last, sounding a little weary, and I swallow hard, my head racing with thoughts.

“I wish we could go back to that coffee shop,” I say at last. “And we’d meet. And you’d say, ‘Hi. I’m Sebastian.’ And I’d say, ‘Hi. I’m Fixie.’ And there wouldn’t be any favors or owing or receipts or tallies or anything.”

“Yes. Well.” Seb shrugs unsmilingly. “You can’t go back in time and do life a different way. That’s not how it works.”

“I know.” I feel a prickle of irritation. “I was just saying. You asked.”

“Have another piece of fudge,” says Seb pleasantly, but with an edge to his voice. “With no debt or obligation attached whatsoever.”

“Thanks.” I match his sarcastic tone.

He passes me the plate and I take a piece and for a few moments we’re silent, until Seb suddenly draws breath, his face working with thoughts I can’t guess.

“You think love isn’t transactional?” he says. “That’s what you’re telling me? Then I have a question. Why do you run around, constantly doing too much for your family?”

“What?” I give a shocked, incredulous laugh. “No, I don’t!”

“Is it because of love?” he continues, ignoring me. “Or is it because you feel you owe them? Or is it guilt? Because that’s a toxic, subprime, never-ending debt, and you need to get rid of it.”

Everything he’s saying is touching a nerve. But I can’t admit it.

“I don’t do too much for my family.” I glower at him.

“All I hear about is what can you do for your mother, your family, the business. You work harder than any of them. You clear up their messes. Your brother has problems and you want to sort them out! Why should you? Let him sort it out!”

I can’t help it; I’m starting to bristle. If people attack my family, I defend them. It’s how I’m made.

“Look, you wouldn’t understand,” I say tightly.

“Because I don’t have a family?” he shoots back, equally tightly, and I blink in shock.

“No! Of course not! I only meant … We’re very close. We have a motto—”

“I know,” he cuts me off. “Family first. When did they last put you first, Fixie?”

I stare back, my face prickling. I feel like he’s taking each of my most hidden, most painful feelings and holding them up to the light to brush them down—and it hurts. I want him to stop.

“My family may be a distant memory,” says Seb, “but what I do remember about them is that love isn’t acting like a doormat. Love can be tough. Sometimes love has to be tough.”

“You think I’m a doormat?” I say, breathing hard.

“I didn’t say that. But I think you need to start thinking less about what you owe other people and more about what you owe yourself.”

I know what he’s saying makes sense. But at the same time, he’s making me feel so stupid. Such a mug. And I can’t bear it.

“So, what, just stop caring?” I lash back.

“It’s not that!” he says hotly. “But you have to care for yourself! You have to be strong. Don’t let them make you feel bad about yourself. Try to … I don’t know. Block them out.”

“Oh, right.” I hear my stream of hostile words before I can stop them. “Easy. Block out my family. Like you block out your brother? Shut the door and turn the key and look away? Just because you can’t see a bin full of bottles doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

There’s a monumental, terrible silence. Seb looks like I’ve bludgeoned him.

“How do you know what’s in that room?” he says at last, and his voice has lost all its volume and spirit.

“I’m sorry.” I rub my face. “I … I took the key. I looked.”

The atmosphere has disintegrated. I take a step forward, trying to be conciliatory, but Seb doesn’t react. His face is pale and distant, as though I’m not even here. I look at the plate of fudge and suddenly realize that if he’s been making it since he was seven, he probably made it with his brother.

“Seb—”

“It’s fine,” he says, looking at me as though I’m a stranger. “It’s fine. Really.”

“It’s not fine.”

“It’s fine,” he repeats. “Let’s not talk about it.”

His face is all closed up and his voice has lost all its warmth. I feel like I’ve been excommunicated.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” I say in a defensive rush.

“Like what?”

“Like I meant to hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You pried into my dead brother’s room behind my back.” His tone is unforgiving. “What were you meaning to do?”

“I didn’t ‘pry’!” I say in horror, even though a small voice is whispering, Yes, I did pry. “Seb,” I begin again, trying to reconnect, “I know you’re sensitive, I know this has been awful for you, but I’m sure James would—”

“You have no idea!” he cuts me off furiously, then pauses, regaining control. “You have no idea about James. None.”

His gaze is so hostile, it brings tears to my eyes. I’ve had a hell of a day, and I came here for comfort and instead I’ve messed up. I shouldn’t have invaded Seb’s privacy. I shouldn’t have blurted it out. But can’t he forgive me?

“It seems like neither of us can say anything without hurting the other,” I say, my voice trembling. “Maybe I should go.”

I’m so desperately hoping that Seb’s face will change, that he’ll sweep me into his arms and we can say sorry to each other six hundred times and make it better in bed.

But he doesn’t. He’s silent for a few moments, then says, “If you think so.”

So I gather my things with shaking hands, my breaths coming short and shallow. And I go.

I travel home in a daze, sitting on the tube, staring at my distorted reflection. I can’t quite comprehend what just happened, how we went so far and so badly so quickly. And it’s only when I get home, to my own bedroom, that I bury my face in my pillow and start to sob.