I Owe You One: A Novel(114)

“He’ll never do it for himself,” chimes in Lucia knowledgeably. “Briony’s doing him a favor. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, you know. I had to smuggle three pairs of my husband’s manky old trousers out of the house once,” she adds gaily. “Three pairs! I literally hid them in a black bin bag. He would never have got rid of them otherwise!”

I can’t find an answer. I’m quivering with distress. I want to yell, “You think this has any resemblance to three pairs of manky old trousers? Has Briony told you the actual truth about this?”

“He’ll thank me for it in the end,” says Briony, still with that edge of defiance. “Short, sharp shock. It’s the only way.”

I’m dazed by her callousness. I think of Seb arriving back to find his brother’s room cleared, with no warning. I think of him standing there, his honest warm face draining of blood … and I can’t bear it. I feel as though I’m getting a short, sharp shock myself. Except it’s not short and sharp; it’s deep and damaging and can never be undone.

And now, as I survey Briony’s beautiful, selfish face, my fingers are drumming like they’ve never drummed before. My feet are itching. There’s a weird buzzing in my head. A tension rising through me. I know it’s not my life. I know he’s not with me. I know it’s their business. But I can’t stand by. I can’t.

“Right,” I manage at last, trying to sound unconcerned. “Fair enough. Good for you. Actually … I need to go. Sorry, I’ve just remembered I have a … meeting. Enjoy the shop. Stacey!” I call, so piercingly that she turns round this time.

“Hi,” she says, sauntering over, looking Briony and Lucia up and down.

“Please show these customers around. They want to see the whole shop. The whole shop,” I add for emphasis, and I see Stacey’s sharp eyes receive the message.

“Sure thing. Let’s start with glassware; that’s at the back of the shop.…” she says, leading them away.

I grab my coat from behind the cash desk, pick up my bag, and hurry outside into the wintry street, almost bumping into Gingerbread Jake.

“Jake,” I say breathlessly. “I have to go. Take over. Please?”

“Fine,” he says, looking taken aback. “Go. Do what you have to do.” He hesitates, then adds, “You OK?”

“Of course I’m OK, why shouldn’t I be?” I retort, and Jake gives me an odd look.

“Well, you’re crying.”

I’m crying? I reach up in shock and feel the streams of tears, wet on my cheeks.

“Busted.” I manage to grin, rubbing at my face. “I’m not really OK. But I just have to … I have to do this thing.”

Jake lifts a hand in its gingerbread glove and squeezes my shoulder, tight.

“Go for it,” he says. And I nod gratefully, before turning and breaking into a run.

—

The journey is at once too long and too short. As I arrive at Seb’s office, I feel almost sick with nerves. But the thought of Briony crashing into the most sensitive part of Seb’s life makes me feel even sicker, so I steel myself and march in.

“Hi,” I say to the receptionist without preamble. “I need to see Seb. It’s urgent.”

There must be something about my face, because she hesitates, then gets up and knocks on his door, and within thirty seconds he’s coming out himself. And my legs weaken underneath me because I can’t cope with this. I thought I could, but I can’t.

I was hoping I’d see him and think, Ah, he’s not so great after all, but it’s the opposite. He’s as tall and strong and handsome as ever, his woodland eyes wary as they meet mine. I have that weird thought, just as I did in the coffee shop when I first saw him: I know you.

But I can’t know him, can I? Or I’d know why we’ve ended up like this, meeting like two stilted strangers. Didn’t he feel what I was feeling? Didn’t he feel the joy? What happened between us—what happened?

My head is tumbling with anguish, with questions … but somehow I force myself to focus. I can’t keep tormenting myself. He’s with Briony. It’s over. It’s done. You can’t go back in time and do life a different way.

And, anyway, I’m not here because of us. I’m here because of him.

“Hi, Seb,” I say, and my voice trembles, but I carry on resolutely. “There’s something … Could we talk?”

Of course,” says Seb, after a pause. “Come on in.”

He ushers me in and I sit down and for a beat there’s silence.

“Are you … How are you?” says Seb, and I can see by the way he’s sitting bolt upright, his hands making a tense pyramid on his desk, that he’s thrown off-balance.

“Fine, thanks. You?”

“Yes, I’m good.”

“Good.”

The air seems thin between us. Our words are thin. I don’t know how to proceed, how to bring up the subject. But I need to—it’s in me like a ticking time bomb—so in the end I just blurt out:

“James.”

“What?” Seb jolts as though I’ve scalded him.

“You … you never told me about James.”

I’m thinking that maybe Seb can tell me about his brother and we can move on to the subject that way—but it doesn’t work. Seb’s body language immediately crackles with tension.