I Owe You One: A Novel

Four

Ryan isn’t at the house yet. Nor Jake.

As soon as I get inside, I sidle to the sitting room and glance through the door crack, ready to dart away. If they were anywhere they’d be there, sitting on the sofa, swigging beers. But they’re not. I’m safe.

I head toward the kitchen at the back, passing Nicole en route. She’s photographing a paper garland hanging from the wall. I guess it’s a party decoration, although our house barely needs any more embellishment. Over the years, Mum has covered every wall with family photos, collages, and box frames full of mementos. She’s really artistic, Mum, and so is Nicole, but that gene totally missed me out, just like the supermodel-looks gene. Both Jake and I inherited Dad’s dark-hair dark-eyes combo, which I guess you could call “striking.” But Nicole is heart-stoppingly beautiful, even if she never did quite make it as a model. The line of her jaw, the turquoise of her eyes, her slanty eyebrows … it all adds up to something magical. Even I want to stare at her all day, and I’m her sister.

“Hi, Nicole,” I greet her, and Nicole nods, squinting at her phone. Although she’s married, she’s living here for a few months, because her husband, Drew, has gone to work in Abu Dhabi for six months, setting up a computer system for some multinational, and Nicole refused to go.

“Abu Dhabi?” she said, as though that was all the reason she needed. “Abu Dhabi?” Then she added, as the clincher: “What about my yoga?”

So Drew left for Abu Dhabi and they’ve sublet their flat and Nicole is back in the family house for a bit. The fridge is full of probiotic yogurt, and her strandy ethnic necklaces are all over the place where she leaves them, and every morning I hear her podcast telling her soothingly not to judge herself, while pipe music plays.

I know Nicole’s finding it tougher than she thought, Drew being away, because she sighs a lot and peers at her phone and tells everyone she meets how she’s got separation anxiety. I feel sorry for Drew too. He phones us on the landline whenever he can’t reach Nicole on her mobile and often ends up talking to Mum or me. I’ve heard all about the vicious heat and his insomnia and the in-office battles he’s having with someone called Baz. The last time he phoned he sounded quite poorly, so Mum and I ended up googling illnesses and sending him links.

He and Nicole were only together for a year before they got married, and he works pretty hard in IT, so I didn’t know Drew that well at the wedding last year. But I’ve spoken to him so much on the phone since he’s been away, I’ve got to know him far better. He’s got a great sense of humor and I can see why Nicole married him. Although I can’t see why she hasn’t gone to Abu Dhabi with him. They must have yoga courses there, surely?

“Oh, Nicole, did you get my message?” I say, remembering. “I spoke to Drew last night and apparently it’s not malaria.”

“Oh, good,” says Nicole absently. “Isn’t this great?” she says with more animation, holding up her garland. “I’m putting it on Pinterest. It’s like, it’s …”

I wait for her to finish—then realize that she has. Nicole quite often drifts away into blankness while you wait there politely.

“Amazing,” I say. “Where’s Jake?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“But he said he was on his way to the house to help Mum, what, two hours ago?”

Nicole shrugs and takes another photo of her garland.

“So who has been helping Mum?” I know I sound accusing, although the truth is, I feel defensive. I should have come home to help Mum, not gone shopping, let alone stopped at a coffee shop.

“I have!” says Nicole, sounding injured. “I’ve been doing decorations!”

“Right,” I say carefully. “But I meant the food and tidying up and everything?”

“I need an artistic outlet, OK? I’m coping with a lot of stress right now, Fixie.” Nicole shoots me a baleful look. “My husband’s on the other side of the world, in case you’d forgotten. I’m experiencing separation anxiety. I need to look after myself.”

“Well, I know, but—”

“My yoga teacher says if I don’t find ways to self-care, I might end up with mental-health issues.” She throws the phrase out like a trump card.

“Right,” I say after a pause. “OK. Er … sorry.”

I hurry on to the kitchen and push the door open to find Mum bent over the kitchen work top, just as I guessed she would be. She’s still in her apron and jeans, her graying hair pulled into a scrunchie, laboring over a sheet of pink sugar paste with a plastic cutter. She has a smear of icing on her earlobe and her usual daytime makeup look—i.e., none.

Has she taken some time out, washed her hair, or applied a face mask? No, of course she hasn’t. I shouldn’t think she’s planned what to wear either. The challenge with Mum’s birthday party every year is getting her to actually go to the party.

“Hi, Mum!” I greet her, but she cuts me off, her brow creased with concentration. She’s naturally beautiful, Mum, with high strong cheekbones and a thin vibrant face. You can see where Nicole got it from. “Can I help?”

“Shh! Wait!”

All her attention is on crafting a peony out of sugar paste. Painstakingly, she winds the cut-out shape into a flower and attaches a green sugar-paste leaf.

“Beautiful.” I applaud.

“It works, doesn’t it?” Mum pops the peony on a frosted cupcake, then taps the plastic cutter. “This is good. Well priced too. I think we should stock it.”

Mum is never knowingly under-tasked. Right now not only is she preparing cupcakes for her own birthday party, she’s simultaneously trying out a product for the shop. Mum would never stock a product unless she believed in it. So every pan, every food storage container, every fancy culinary gadget, has to pass the Mum Test. Does it work? Is it good value? Will our customers actually use it?

“Vanessa will love this,” she adds.

“Definitely.” I nod, smiling at the thought of Vanessa, with her patchwork waistcoats and red raincoat and boundless enthusiasm. Vanessa is one of our most regular customers and a member of the Cake Club, which we run every Tuesday evening. Morag does demonstrations at a portable cooking station and everyone shows off their own efforts. We’ve got a customer board in the shop, filled with photos of cakes, plus an Instagram page. It’s one of the things that makes Farrs so special: our community.

“I’ll take over in here,” I say now, seizing my chance while Mum has paused. “You go and get ready.”

She looks up for the first time—and her face drops.

“Fixie, what happened to you? The weather’s not that bad?” She glances out of the window at the light summer rain, which began as I was walking home.

“No! I just had a little accident. It’s fine.”

“She looks awful, doesn’t she?” says Nicole, drifting in.

“Mum,” I try again. “Why don’t you go and get ready? Have a nice bath. Relax for a bit.”

“I’ll just make two more of these,” says Mum, rolling out more sugar paste.

“OK, well, I’ll nip up and sort out my hair,” I say. “I’ll be super-quick.”

“Then maybe you could make me a coffee, darling?” says Mum to Nicole. “If you’re not doing anything else?”

“Oh.” Nicole wrinkles her nose dubiously. “Coffee. You know I can’t do the machine.”

It was Jake who bought Mum her cappuccino machine as a present last Christmas. It’s quite technical, but you can get to know it if you try. Nicole, though, seems pathologically unable to. She peers at it and says, “What does it mean, Empty drip tray?” and you explain it and show her three times, but she still doesn’t get it. So in the end you do it yourself.

“I’ll do it,” I say hurriedly, and reach for a mug.

“Hi, Mum.” Jake breezes into the kitchen, wafting aftershave and beer. “Happy birthday.” He plants a kiss on her cheek and presents her with the Christian Dior bag.

“Darling!” Mum’s eyes have widened at the glossy bag. “You shouldn’t!”

When most people say, “You shouldn’t,” they really mean, “You should,” but not Mum. She gets twitchy when people spend money on her, especially us, her children. Of course she’s touched—but she’s anxious too, because she thinks it’s needless.

Mum thinks a lot of things in this world are needless. She rarely wears makeup. She never travels abroad. In fact, she hardly ever takes a holiday. She never reads the paper. I’m not sure she even votes. (She says she does, but I think she’s fibbing so we won’t lecture her.)

The only websites she ever visits are craft suppliers, cooking stores, and gadget sites. She watches EastEnders, she manages Farrs, she goes to her Zumba class; that’s it. Sometimes I’ve suggested that she take a trip abroad or visit a country-house spa. But she gives me this kind little smile and says, “That’s for other people, love.”

As for another man, forget it. She hasn’t looked at another man or been on a single date since Dad died. She says he’s still with her and she still talks to him and she doesn’t need anyone else. When Jake once tried to sign her up to some “silver years” dating site, she got quite angry, which is unlike her.

“Jake, you make the coffee for Mum,” says Nicole. “Where’s Leila?”

“I sent her off to buy some more beer,” replies Jake, whereupon I have a sudden image of poor Leila lugging ten crates of beer along the street in her skinny arms. And I wasn’t going to ask, but before I can stop them the words spill out:

“Is Ryan here?”

My voice is husky and I flush as everyone turns to look at me. I would never have mentioned Ryan—but I suddenly got worried he might appear in the kitchen. I’ve still got pipe water all over my hair and I’m wearing my work jeans and basically I’d have to hide in the fridge.

“Not yet.” Jake runs his eyes over me. “Jeez, is that your party look? Drowned weasel?” At once Nicole bursts into laughter.

“Oh God, Fixie, you do look like a drowned weasel.”

“A ceiling fell on me!” I say defensively. “It wasn’t my fault!”

“Darling, you go up and take a shower and you’ll look lovely,” says Mum in that soothing way she has. Soothing with an edge of steel, enough to warn off Jake and Nicole.

Mum’s like one of those dressage riders on TV. She changes her voice an iota and we all obey her instantly, like trained Olympic horses. Even Jake.

“Are you OK, Fixie?” asks Nicole, looking abashed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“Fixie, I didn’t mean it,” says Jake. “You go and get ready. Take your time. I’ll hold the fort here.”

He sounds so charming, I’m mollified. Jake can be really nice when he wants to.

“OK.” I pick up my bag of hair clips. “I’ll go and have a shower. Mum, why don’t you come up too now? We could pick out an outfit for you.”

“In a moment,” says Mum absently as she shapes another peony.

I’ll be in a better position to chivvy Mum into her party clothes when I’m ready myself, I decide. I sprint upstairs, rip off my damp jeans and T-shirt, and quickly take a shower in our tiny old-fashioned cubicle.

I haven’t always lived at home—I shared with Hannah for a while. She bought a flat in Hammersmith and said I had to live there too and she would subsidize the rent with her ridiculously large salary. But then she and Tim got more serious and I felt awkward, lurking around every evening.

Then my company went bust and everything had to change, anyway. Mum was the one who said, “Lots of girls your age are still at home, love,” and made me feel OK about moving back for a while. To be honest, I was just really grateful to have that option.

I stand on the landing to dry my hair, wrapped in a towel, because there’s more space and a big mirror. And I’m pausing between blasts when a sound catches my attention from downstairs. It’s Jake, talking.

Our house isn’t huge, and the walls and floors are pretty thin. So although I can’t hear exactly what Jake is saying in the kitchen, I can pick up on how he’s saying it. He’s talking on and on, and nobody’s interrupting him, and I suddenly feel suspicious. I hurry downstairs, still in my towel, and now I can hear Jake properly, saying in his smoothest drawl, “As I say, it’s an amazing opportunity, and the oil tastes out of this world. But I don’t want to bother you with the details, Mum; you’re busy enough. So shall I just put in an order? Ten bottles?”

What?

I’m breathing furiously as I reach the bottom of the stairs. He deliberately got me out of the way; he deliberately chose a moment when Mum was distracted …

Shit. I’ve dropped my towel.

I hastily wrap it around myself again and approach the kitchen.

“Mum!” As I burst in, my chest is rising and falling. “About this olive oil …” The ravens are flapping around me, but I’m trying desperately to ignore them. “I’ve already talked to Jake, and I … I really don’t think …”

Oh God, my voice has gone wobbly again. My courage has disintegrated. I loathe myself.

“It’s nothing to do with you, Fixie,” says Jake, glowering at me.

“Yes, it is.” I glare back at him.

“Jake. Fixie.” Mum’s calm voice cuts through the atmosphere. “You know I’d never order a new product without seeing the details. Show me, Jake.”

“It’s your party!” Jake is obviously trying to sound jovial. “You don’t want to see all that right now—”

“I do, love,” she says pleasantly. “Hand it over.”

“Right. OK,” says Jake at last. He hands Mum a sheaf of papers and we both stand waiting while she flicks through them. I see her reach the price list and I see her eyes snap in shock.

“Too expensive, love,” she says, and hands the papers back to Jake. “Way too expensive. Not for us.”

“They’re aspirational,” begins Jake. “They’re a different kind of product.” But Mum shakes her head.

“Our aspirational is a bottle of edible glitter. Not this.”

“Mum, don’t set your sights so low,” says Jake cajolingly. “People buy this kind of stuff! They really do. At Harrods—”

“Maybe they sell all sorts at Harrods,” Mum cuts him off calmly. “But put olive oil on our shelves for a hundred pounds and it won’t just not sell, it’ll upset people. It’ll offend them.”

Now she says it, I realize she’s right. I can see Vanessa striding through the shop, brandishing a bottle, saying, “You’re charging a hundred pounds for this? That’s daylight robbery!”

“But—”

“No, Jake.” Mum interrupts him as crisply as she did when he was ten and using grown-up bad words. “Enough. My answer’s no. Your dad would have said the same.”

When Mum invokes Dad, that really is the end of the discussion. Jake shoots me a look, as though this is all my fault, but I don’t care. I just feel relieved. And foolish. How did I ever think that Jake would hoodwink Mum? She’s Mum. She runs the ship.

“I’ll go and finish my hair,” I say, and Mum looks up. She runs her eyes up and down me and I don’t know what she sees, but she suddenly gives me one of her special, warm, encouraging smiles.

Whenever Mum smiles, lines appear all over her face. They stretch like sunrays from her eyes; they score her cheeks and mark out her forehead in deep creases. Grief brought extra lines to her face. I saw it happen. And maybe some people think the lines are ugly, but I see love and life in every one of them.

“Why don’t you ask Nicole to do it with her special curler?” she says, and shoots Nicole a look.

“Oh,” says Nicole indifferently, looking up from her phone. “OK, fine, I’ll do it. Come upstairs.”

I know Mum wishes that Nicole and I were closer. She’d love us to be “there for each other,” like sisters in movies: hugging and confiding in each other and all that.

I mean, I try to be close to Nicole. I do. But it’s a bit like oil trying to be close to water. We just don’t take.

“And, Jake,” says Mum, as he reaches into the fridge for a beer, “before you have that, could you help me arrange these cupcakes? Mind you don’t mess up the icing, though.”

“Right,” says Jake, looking unenthusiastic as he puts down the beer, and I hide a smile. No one else could get Jake to put off drinking beer in order to arrange cupcakes. But then, no one else is Mum.