I Owe You One: A Novel

Two

The visitors are posh-looking. Of course they are. My brother likes hanging out with posh people. Jake has always been ambitious, ever since he was a little boy. At first he was just ambitious to be on the football team. Then, in his late teens, he started socializing with a rich crowd—and suddenly he was dissatisfied with our house and our holidays and even, one awful time, with Dad’s accent. (There was another huge argument. Mum got really upset. I still remember the sound of the shouting coming through the floor from downstairs.)

He worked as an estate agent in Fulham—until about three years ago, when he started his own business—and there the poshness rubbed off on him even more. Jake likes being around blokes in brogues, with identikit haircuts and raah voices. Basically he resents the fact that he wasn’t born in Chelsea. That he’s not one of those poshos on the telly, partying with royalty and taking six holidays a year. But since he’s not, he can at least spend all his time in pubs on the King’s Road with guys called Rupert.

These two men, stepping out of their Range Rover, clearly come from that crowd, with their polo shirts and deck shoes and tans. I find these types a bit intimidating, to be honest, but I tell myself, Chin up, Fixie, and go forward to greet them. I can see one eyeing up the shop with a critical frown, and I feel a defensive prickle. OK, it’s not the most beautiful shop front—it’s a 1970s purpose-built structure—but the glass panes are gleaming and the display of kitchen textiles looks great. We have a pretty good amount of space for a High Street store, and we use it well. We have several display tables at the front and three aisles, and it all works.

“Hi!” the taller one greets me. “Clive Beresford. Are you Felicity?”

A lot of people hear Fixie and think Felicity. I’m used to it.

“Fixie.” I smile and shake his hand. “Welcome to Farrs.”

“Simon.” The other guy lifts a hand as he lugs a heavy-looking box out of the Range Rover. “We found it! Good space you’ve got here.”

“Yes.” I nod. “We’re lucky.”

“Not exactly Notting Hill, though, is it?”

“Notting Hill?” I echo, puzzled.

“Jake said the family business was in Notting Hill.”

I press my lips together. This is so Jake. Of course he said we were based in Notting Hill. He probably said Hugh Grant was a regular customer too.

“No, we’re Acton,” I say politely.

“But you’re planning to expand into Notting Hill soonish?” presses Clive, as we head inside. “That’s what your brother told us.”

Expand into Notting Hill? That’s total rubbish. I know Jake just wanted to impress a pair of strangers at a bar. But I can hear Dad’s voice in my head: Family first, Fixie.

“Maybe,” I say pleasantly. “Who knows?” I usher them into the shop, then spread my arms around at all the saucepans, plastic storage boxes, and tablecloths. “So, this is us.”

There’s a short silence. I can sense this isn’t what they expected. Simon is peering at a display of mason jars. Clive takes a few steps forward and looks at a Monopoly set curiously. A moment later, a red bouncy ball drops on his head.

“Ow!” He looks up. “What the—”

“Sorry!” I say quickly. “No idea how that happened!”

Shit. There must have been a stray one teetering somewhere.

“So you’re looking to turn into more of a high-end deli?” Simon seems puzzled. “Do you stock any food at all?”

I feel another defensive prickle. I don’t know what stories Jake’s been telling him, but that’s not my fault.

“Absolutely.” I nod. “Oils, vinegars, spices, that kind of thing. Please do put your box down.”

“Perfect.” He dumps the box on a front display chest, which we cleared in advance. (Normally we’d go into the back room, but it’s full of boxes of scented candles, which we need to unpack.) “Well, let me introduce you to what we do. We’ve sourced a range of olive oils which are rather special.” He says it in that posh way—raaather special. “Have a taste.”

As he speaks, both men are unpacking large bottles of olive oil from wooden boxes. Simon briskly lays out some dipping saucers and Clive produces some precut cubes of bread.

He’s talking about some olive estate in Italy, but I’m not listening properly; I’m staring in horror at Greg. He’s just walked into view—and his pockets are still stuffed with bouncy balls. His entire groin area looks massive and lumpy and just … weird. Why didn’t he get rid of them?

I give him a furious eye roll, which means: Why have you still got bouncy balls in your pockets? Greg immediately shoots back an urgent eye roll of his own, which clearly means: There’s a good reason, believe me.

I don’t believe him for a moment. Greg acts in good faith, no one doubts that, but his logic is random and unnerving. He’s like a computer on its last legs that works perfectly until it suddenly decides to email your whole in-box to Venezuela.

“Would you like to have a taste?”

I abruptly realize Clive’s spiel is over and he’s proffering bread cubes and oil.

As I dip and taste, I’m thinking: Typical Jake, setting up this meeting on the one day that Mum isn’t in the shop. What does he think, that he can get this past her beady eye? That she won’t notice? Mum notices everything. Every sale, every refund, every email. Everything.

Suddenly I notice that the two posh guys keep shooting surreptitious glances at Greg’s bulging groin area. I mean, I don’t blame them. It’s a pretty disturbing sight.

“Excuse Greg’s strange-looking appearance,” I say with a relaxed laugh. “He doesn’t normally look like that! It’s just that he—”

“Hormone disorder,” Greg cuts me off with an impassive nod, and I nearly choke on my bread. Why … What does he even mean by … Hormone disorder? “Nasty,” Greg adds meaningfully.

I’m used to Greg’s idiosyncrasies, but sometimes he silences even me.

“Funny story,” Greg adds, encouraged by the attention. “My brother was born with only half a pancreas. And my mum, she’s got this manky kidney—”

“Thanks, Greg!” I interrupt desperately. “Thanks for … Thanks.”

The two smart guys look even more appalled, and Greg shoots me a self-satisfied look which I know means, “Saved things there, didn’t I?”

For about the hundredth time I wonder if we could send Greg on a course. A course on Not Being Greg.

“Anyway!” I say as Greg heads off. “These olive oils are amazing.” I’m not just being polite; it’s true. They’re rich and aromatic and delicious, especially the dark-green peppery one. “How much would they retail for?”

“The prices are all laid out here,” says Simon, handing me a printed document. I scan the figures—and nearly fall over flat. Usually I’m pretty cool in situations like this, but I hear myself gasping, “Ninety-five pounds?”

“Obviously this is very much a luxury, high-end product,” says Clive smoothly. “As we explained, it’s a very special estate, and the process is unique—”

“But no one’s going to spend ninety-five quid on a bottle of oil!” I almost want to laugh. “Not in this shop. Sorry.”

“But when you open in Notting Hill?” chimes in Simon. “Very different market. We think ‘The Notting Hill Family Deli’ is a great name, by the way.”

I try to hide my shock. The what? Our shop is called Farrs. It was named Farrs by our dad, whose name was Michael Farr, and it’s never going to be called anything else.

“This is the olive oil we stock.” Greg’s voice takes us all by surprise, and he places a bottle of oil on the table. “Costs £5.99.” His prominent gray eyes survey the two posh guys. “Just saying.”

“Yes,” says Simon, after a pause. “Well, of course, that’s a rather different product from ours. Not to be rude, but if you both have a taste, you’ll notice the difference in quality of the cheaper oil. May I?”

I notice how skillfully he’s drawn Greg into the conversation. Now he’s pouring out our £5.99 oil and dipping cubes of bread into it. As I taste, I can see what he means. Our oil tastes thinner in comparison.

But you have to know your customers. You have to know their limits. I’m about to tell Simon that our customers are a practical, pragmatic lot and there’s not a chance in hell they’ll spend ninety-five quid on oil, when the door opens and I turn to see Jake striding in.

He’s an impressive sight. Always is. He’s got Dad’s firm jaw and Dad’s twinkling eyes and he’s dressed in really nice clothes. Posh estate-agent clothes. Navy blazer, tie, shiny expensive shoes. Cuff links.

And at the very sight of him, I feel a rush of familiar feelings attacking me, like flapping ravens. Inadequate. Guilty. Inferior. Rubbish.

This is nothing new. My big brother always brings these feelings out in me, and why shouldn’t he? If I believe in anything as much as family first, it’s be fair. I’m always fair and truthful, however painful it is.

And the painful truth is that Jake is the success and I’m the failure. He’s the one who started an import-export business without a penny from anyone else. He’s the one who made a mint on some brand of nude seamless knickers that he sold to a discount store. He’s the one who has the flash car and the business cards and the (nearly) MBA.

I’m the one who took a loan from Mum (“our inheritance,” Jake always calls it) and tried to set up a catering business and failed. And who still hasn’t paid the money back.

I’m not the black sheep of the family. That would be glamorous and interesting. I’m just the stupid dumb sheep who still has a stash of dark-green aprons under the bed, all embroidered with my logo: Farr’s Food. (I sold everything else, but I couldn’t get rid of those.) And whenever I’m around Jake, I feel even more stupid and dumb. Like, literally dumb. Because I barely ever open my mouth, and when I do, I start to stammer.

I have opinions; I have ideas. I really do. When I’m managing the store alone—or alongside Mum—I can tell people what to do. I can assert myself. But around Jake, and even sometimes Nicole, I think twice before I venture my thoughts. Because the unsaid message hanging in the air is: “Well, what would you know? Your business went bust.”

The only one who makes me feel like none of it matters and I’m still worth something is Mum. If it weren’t for her, I don’t know how I’d have coped.

“Guys!” Jake greets the visitors. “You’re here already! Ciao.”

Ciao. This is how he talks with them. We grew up in the same family, but I can’t imagine ever being the type of person who says ciao.

“Jake!” Clive claps him on the back. “My man.”

“Call this Notting Hill?” joshes Simon, shaking Jake’s hand. “This is bloody Acton!”

“It’s just the start of the empire,” says Jake, with a broad grin—then he darts me the tiniest of looks, which I can read completely. It means, “I’m assuming you haven’t dumped me in it?”

I shoot back a corresponding look, which says, “The Notting Hill Family Deli?” But now he’s blanking me.

Jake often blanks me when he’s with his smart friends. He’s probably worried I’ll expose some of the fibs I’ve heard him tell. I’d never do that—family first—but I do notice when he’s fudging the truth about things. Like where he went to school (he calls himself a “grammar school boy,” but it was a comp). And references to our “little place in the country.” I have no idea which “little place” that would be—maybe the old privy at the end of Mum’s garden?

“So these are the famous oils!” Jake exclaims. “Fantastico!”

“You have to come and see the estate, Jake,” says Simon enthusiastically. “Absolutely stunning.”

“Love to,” Jake drawls. “I adore that part of the world.”

I don’t remember Jake ever going to Italy in his life, although obviously I’m not going to point this out.

“You know it costs ninety-five quid a bottle?” I say tentatively to Jake. “I don’t think our customers can afford that, can they?”

I see Jake flinch in irritation and I know why. He doesn’t want to be reminded of our practical, price-conscious customers. He wants nonexistent millionaire customers.

“But if you’re going high end, this is where the market is.” Clive taps the bottle. “The taste is phenomenal, I’m sure Fixie will agree?”

“It’s great,” I say. “It’s delicious. I’m just … you know. Will our customers appreciate it?”

Sure enough, my voice has started shaking. I’m asking questions instead of making statements. Jake’s presence has that effect on me. And I hate myself for it, because it makes me sound uncertain, when I’m not—I’m not.

“They’ll learn to appreciate it.” Jake brushes me off. “We’ll have tasting evenings, that kind of thing …” He addresses Clive and Simon. “We’ll definitely make an order, guys, it’s just a question of how much.”

I feel a shaft of panic. We can’t make an order on the spot, especially in Mum’s absence.

“Jake, maybe we should talk about this first?” I venture.

“Nothing to talk about,” he shoots back, his eyes clearly telling me: “Shut up.”

Oh God. Even though the ravens are batting their wings in my face, I have to persevere. For Mum.

“I just …” My voice is wavering again and I clear my throat. “Our customers come here for sensible, value-for-money products. They don’t buy luxury food items.”

“Well, maybe we have to educate them,” snaps Jake. “Teach them. Get their mediocre taste buds used to finer flavors.” He grabs a cube of bread, scoops up some of the £5.99 oil, and puts it in his mouth before anyone can say anything. “I mean, this is sublime,” he says in muffled tones as he chews. “It’s on a whole different level. It’s nutty, it’s rich … you can taste the quality.… Guys, what can I say, congratulations. I’m seriously impressed.”

He holds out a hand, but neither Simon nor Clive takes it. They seem too stunned to move.

“So, which one was that?” says Jake, finally finishing his mouthful. “Was it the most expensive?”

There’s silence. I can’t look at anyone. Every fiber of me is cringing for Jake.

But, kudos to the posh: They have impeccable manners. Not a flicker runs over Clive’s face as he immediately, deftly, saves the situation.

“I’m not quite sure which one that was?” he says to Simon, his brow wrinkled.

“I’m not sure either.” Simon swiftly takes his cue. “I think the dishes have been mixed up maybe, so—”

“Probably our fault for bringing so many.”

“Absolutely,” chimes in Simon. “They all start to taste the same!”

They’re being so kind to Jake, while he’s totally oblivious, that I want to say, “Thank you, posh guys. Thank you for being so nice to my brother when he doesn’t even know it.”

But of course I don’t. Simon and Clive glance at each other and tacitly seem to agree to wrap up. We all keep smiling and chatting as they pack their stuff and suggest that we have a chat and they’ll be in touch.

As they drive away from the front of the shop, Jake and I both draw breath to speak—but he gets in first.

“Well done, Fixie,” he says, looking annoyed. “You scared them away. Nice work.”

“Look, Jake, I’m sorry,” I begin, then curse myself for apologizing. Why do I always do that? “I just … I really think—”

“I know what you think,” he cuts me off dismissively. “But I’m the one trying to be strategic about the future of the shop here. Bigger. Better. High-end. Profitable.”

“Yes, but ninety-five quid for one bottle of olive oil, Jake,” I appeal to him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” he snaps. “Harrods stock it.”

I don’t even know what to say to this. Harrods?

I’m aware of Greg glancing our way, and I hastily paste on a smile. Dad would kill us for airing family disputes on the shop floor.

“Jakey?” I turn to see Leila, Jake’s girlfriend, coming into the store, wearing an adorable yellow full-skirted dress and sunglasses on her head. Leila always reminds me of Bambi. She has long spindly legs and she wears high wedged sandals that clip-clop like hooves and she peers at the world through her long eyelashes as though she’s not sure if it’s about to shoot her. She’s very sweet and I can’t possibly argue with Jake in front of her.

Not just because she’s sweet, but because family first. Leila isn’t family. Not actual family. Not yet. She’s been going out with Jake for three years—they met in a club—and I’ve never seen them argue. Leila doesn’t seem the arguing type, although she must get angry with Jake sometimes? She’s never mentioned it, though. In fact, she once said to me, “Jake’s a real softie, isn’t he?” and I nearly fell over backward. Jake? A softie?

“Hi, Leila,” I say, kissing her. She’s as thin and tiny as a child; in fact, I’m amazed she can hold all those glossy carrier bags. “Been shopping?”

“I’ve been treating the missus,” says Jake loftily. “We got Mum’s present too.”

Jake always calls Leila “the missus,” although they’re not even engaged. I sometimes wonder if she minds, but then, I’ve never known Leila to mind about anything. Once, Jake arrived at the shop for a family meeting and it was only after an hour that we realized he’d left Leila in the car to watch out for traffic wardens. She wasn’t annoyed at all; she’d just been sitting scrolling through her phone, humming to herself. When Mum exclaimed, “Jake! How could you leave Leila like that?” he shrugged and said, “She offered.”

Now Leila dangles a shiny Christian Dior shopping bag at me and I inspect it with a small pang. I can’t afford to buy Mum Christian Dior perfume. Still. She likes Sanctuary stuff too, which is what I bought her. And now just the thought of Mum is calming me down. I don’t need to worry about any of this, of course—Mum will sort it out. She’ll talk to Jake in that firm, calm way she has. She won’t let him order silly-money olive oil.

Mum runs the family, the home, the business … basically everything. She’s our CEO. Our anchor. When Dad suddenly died of a heart attack, it was like something exploded in her. It was as if all the negative energy of her grief circled round into a determination that this wouldn’t destroy the business, or the family, or anything. She’s powered us all through the last nine years, and she’s learned Zumba and no one makes flaky pastry like she does. She’s amazing. She says she channels Dad in everything she does and that he talks to her every night. Which sounds weird—but I believe her.

She’s normally in this shop from dawn to dusk. The only reason she’s not here now is it’s her birthday party this evening and she wanted the day off to cook. And, yes, some women of her age—or any age—would let other people cook for them on their birthday. Not Mum. She’s made sausage rolls, Waldorf salad, and apple pie every August 2 since I can remember. It’s tradition. We’re big on tradition, we Farrs.

“By the way, I sorted out your car-repair bill for you,” Jake says to Leila. “I rang the guy. I said, ‘You’ve been messing my girlfriend around. Try again.’ He backed down on everything.”

“Jake!” gasps Leila. “You’re my hero!”

“And then I think you should upgrade,” Jake adds carelessly. “Let’s get you a newer model. We’ll look at the weekend.”

“Oh, Jakey.” Leila’s eyes glow, and she turns to me. “Isn’t he the sweetest?”

“Er … yes.” I smile feebly at her. “Totally.”

At this moment, Morag and her customer—a middle-aged woman—come up to the till. Immediately Jake switches into top customer-service mode, beaming at her and asking, “Did you find everything you need? Ah, a paring knife. Now, I’m afraid I will have to ask a delicate question: Are you over eighteen?”

The woman giggles and blushes, and even I crack a smile. Jake’s pretty charming when he wants to be. As she leaves we all say, “Goodbye,” several times, and smile until the door closes. Then Jake gets his car keys out of his pocket and starts swinging them round his finger, the way he’s done ever since he first got a car.

I know what I want to say to him. It’s almost as if I can see the words forming in front of me in a thought bubble. Articulate, passionate words about the business. About what we do. About Dad. But somehow I can’t seem to get the words out of the thought bubble and into the air.

Jake’s face is distant and I know better than to interrupt him. Leila is poised like me, waiting, her eyebrows anxiously winged together.

She’s so pretty, Leila. Pretty and gentle and never judges anyone. The thing she takes most seriously in life is manicures, because that’s her business and her passion. But she doesn’t even blink at my tatty nails, let alone sneer at them. She just accepts everyone for who they are, Jake included.

Finally, Jake stops swinging the keys and comes to. I have no idea what kinds of thoughts have been transfixing him. Even though I grew up with him, I really don’t understand Jake very well.

“We’ll head over to the house, then,” he says. “Help Mum out.”

By “Help Mum out” I know he means, “Get myself a beer and turn on Sky Sports,” but I don’t challenge him.

“OK,” I say. “See you there.”

Our house is only ten minutes’ walk from the shop; sometimes it feels like one is an extension of the other. And I’m turning back to sort out a display of table mats which has gone wonky when Leila says, “What are you going to wear, Fixie?” in excited tones, as if we’re going to the school prom.

“Dunno,” I say, puzzled. “A dress, I suppose. Nothing special.”

It’s Mum’s birthday party. It’ll be friends and neighbors and Uncle Ned. I mean, I want to look nice, but it’s not exactly the Grand Embassy Ball.

“Oh, right.” Leila seems perplexed. “So you’re not going to …”

“Not what …”

“I just thought, because …”

She trails off meaningfully, as though I’ll know exactly what she’s talking about.

“Because what?” I peer at her, and Leila suddenly swivels on her clippy-cloppy heel to Jake.

“Jakey!” she says, in her version of a reproving tone. (Basically still an adoring simper.) “Haven’t you told her?”

“Oh, that. Right.” Jake rolls his eyes and glances at me. “Ryan’s back.”

What?

I stare at him, frozen. I can’t speak, because my lungs have seized up, but my brain has already started analyzing the word back like a relentless computer program. Back. What does back mean? Back to the UK? Back home? Back to me?

No, not back to me, obviously not back to me—

“He’s back in the country,” elaborates Leila, her eyes soft with empathy. “It never worked out with that American girl. He’s coming to the party. And he was asking after you.”