I Owe You One: A Novel(12)

“Excuse me,” he says politely to me. “I’m just stepping out to take a phone call. Could you watch my laptop?”

“Sure.” I nod and watch him threading his way between the tables, already back on the phone, saying, “I never promised anything! It was your idea—”

I sip my mint tea and glance at the laptop a couple of times. It’s a MacBook. He’s left it closed, with a stack of glossy folders next to it. I tilt my head slightly and read the top one. ESIM: Forward-Looking Investment Opportunities. I’ve never heard of ESIM—not really my thing—but then, investment funds aren’t really my thing either.

People who invest money in funds and shares and all that are like a foreign country to me. In the Farr family there are three things you do with money. You spend it, you put it back into the business, or you start another business. You don’t trust a guy in a suit and a posh tie with a glossy folder that probably cost a tenner to produce.

There’s nothing else interesting about the guy’s laptop, so I sip my drink and run my mind over my outfit options for tonight. And I’m just wondering where my blue lace top has got to, when something in my mind tweaks. Alarm bells have started to ring. Something’s wrong.

Something’s happening.

Or something’s about to happen.

My brain can’t even articulate what it is properly, but my sixth sense is kicking in. I have to act. Now.

Quick, Fixie. Go.

Before I’ve even thought clearly what’s happening, I’m diving across the table, like a rugby champion scoring a try, cradling the guy’s laptop. And, a split second later, a whole section of the ceiling crashes down on top of me, in a gush of plaster and water.

“Argh!”

“Oh my God!”

“Help!”

“Is it an attack?”

“Help that girl!”

The screams around me are a din in my head. I can feel someone pulling at me, saying, “Get away from there!” But I’m so worried about the laptop getting wet that I won’t move from my rigid protective position until I feel paper towels being thrust at me. The water has finally stopped cascading, but plaster is still falling in bits from above, and as I raise my head at last, I see a freaked-out audience of customers watching me.

“I thought you were dead!” says a teenage girl so tearfully I can’t help laughing—and this seems to set off everyone else:

“I saw that water dripping! I knew this would happen.”

“You could have been killed, innit!”

“You need to sue. That’s not right, ceilings falling down.”

A moment ago we were all strangers in a coffee shop, studiously ignoring each other. Now it’s as though we’re best friends. An elderly guy holds out his hand and says, “I’ll hold your computer while you get dry, dear.” But I don’t want to give it up, so I awkwardly mop myself with one hand, thinking, Of all the days, of all the days …

“What the hell?”

It’s the guy. He’s come back into the coffee shop, and he’s staring at me, his mouth open. Gradually the excited comments die down and the coffee shop falls silent. Everyone’s watching the pair of us expectantly.

“Oh, hi,” I say, speaking for the first time since I was drenched. “Here’s your laptop. I hope it isn’t wet.”

I hold it out—it isn’t wet at all—and the guy steps forward to take it. He’s looking from me to the ravaged ceiling to the puddles of water and plaster, with increasing disbelief. “What happened?”

“There was a slight ceiling incident,” I say, trying to downplay it. But like a Greek chorus, all the other customers eagerly start filling him in.

“The ceiling fell in.”

“She dived across the table. Like lightning!”

“She saved your computer. No question. It would have been ruined.”

“Ladies and gentlemen.” A barista raps on the counter to gain our attention. “Apologies. Due to a health-and-safety incident, we are closing the coffee shop. Please come to the counter for a takeaway cup and complimentary cookie.”

There’s a surge toward the counter and the most senior-looking barista of them all comes up to me, her brow crumpled.

“Madam, we would like to apologize for your discomfort,” she says. “We would like to present you with this fifty-pound voucher and hope that you will not …” She clears her throat. “We will be glad to pay for the dry-cleaning of your clothes.”

She’s looking at me beseechingly and I suddenly realize what she’s driving at.

“Don’t worry,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m not going to sue. But I wouldn’t mind another mint tea.”

The barista visibly relaxes and hurries off to make it. Meanwhile, the guy in the suit has been scrolling through his laptop. Now he looks up at me with a stricken expression. “I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve saved my life.”

“Not your life.”

“OK, you’ve saved my bacon. It’s not just the computer—that would have been bad enough. But the stuff on the computer. Stuff I should have backed up.” He closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head as though in disbelief. “What a lesson.”

“Well,” I say, “these things happen. Lucky I was there.”