I Owe You One: A Novel(18)

I’ve seen Ariana’s Instagram page before. Well, of course I have. I keep following her, then un-following her, then following her again. She probably thinks I’m a nutjob, if she’s ever noticed me, which she won’t have done because she has 26.6 thousand followers.

“Here we are.” Nicole finally stops on a photo of Ariana wearing a pink crop top and leggings, standing in an arabesque pose, holding out a big salad to the camera.

“I mean, is she exercising or cooking or what?” I say at last.

“Both,” says Nicole. “It’s her new thing. She cooks and works out all at once.”

“Right,” I say, trying not to fixate on Ariana’s white teeth and perfect rounded butt. “Well. You know. Good for her.”

As Nicole releases another ringlet, her phone bleeps and she reaches for it. “Oh,” she says, frowning at a message. “I have to go.” She puts the curling wand down and reaches for her bag. “Sorry,” she adds as an afterthought. “Julie from my yoga class is at the tube station. I said I’d meet her, because she’s never been here before.”

“You’re going now?” I say in horror. “But what about my hair?”

“I’ve started you off,” says Nicole. “You can finish it yourself.”

“No, I can’t!”

I catch my reflection in the mirror and wince. Half my head is a ringletty mass of curls. The rest is lying flat and dispirited, like a girl who hasn’t been asked to dance.

“Please finish it off,” I beg. “It won’t take long.”

“But Julie’s waiting,” says Nicole. “She’s there.”

“She could find the way, surely—”

“That’s not the point!” Nicole seems offended. “Fixie, you could be a little less selfish. My husband is halfway across the world, OK? This is a really difficult time for me.”

Her phones buzzes with a call and she lifts it to her ear. “Oh, hi, Drew,” she says irritably. “I’m in the middle of something, yeah? I’ll call you back.”

She rings off and glowers at me again. “Friendship is vital for my endorphin levels right now. And you want me to stay here and fix your hair?”

Now she puts it like that, I suddenly feel shallow.

“Sorry,” I say humbly. “I’m sure I can finish it off myself. You go.”

“Thank you,” says Nicole in pointed tones. “And blow the candles out when you leave. Otherwise, like …” She trails off in her vague way.

“I will,” I say hastily. “And thanks!”

As she heads out of the room, I pick up the wand. I wind some hair around it, trying—unsuccessfully—not to burn my fingers, then release it and stare at my hair in dismay.

I’ve made it curl backward somehow. It looks totally weird.

I try one more time—burning my fingers again—then give up. I can’t sit here struggling with a hair wand when Mum’s doing all the work. I’ll shove my hair in a clip. It’ll be fine.

I switch off the wand, blow out the candles, straighten a plaque which says, BELIEVE YOU CAN AND YOU’RE HALFWAY THERE, then leave the room. I go to my bedroom, grab one of my new hair clips, and wind my hair in a knot. I put on my shortest black dress, because Ryan once said to me, “Great legs.” I do my makeup as quickly as I can and peer at myself, trying not to think how pale and English I look compared to Ariana.

Then I hear a noise from Mum’s room and turn away from the mirror, impatient with staring at myself. Enough brooding. I’ll go and see if Mum needs any help.

—

Mum only has two smart dresses and she never goes shopping. (“Not for me, love.”) But she’s so slim, she can’t help looking lovely in her trusty blue linen shift and matching heels from the charity shop. She’s sitting in front of her kidney-shaped dressing table and I perch on the bed, passing makeup to her out of my makeup bag. (Mum’s had the same No. 7 palette forever, and all the good colors have worn away.)

“Tell me about the day,” she says, as she squirts foundation onto her fingers.

“Oh, it was pretty good. A couple came in this morning to stock their whole kitchen. They bought everything.”

“Excellent!” Mum’s eyes sparkle with the fire she always gets when we make a good sale.

“Only I had to get rid of Greg,” I add. “He kept asking them how often they cook at home and what they make. You know, quizzing them about risotto. He was trying to be helpful, but it freaked them out.”

“Poor Greg.” Mum shakes her head ruefully. “He does try.”

“And then Jake brought round his olive-oil people.… You know, he has all these really grand ideas, Mum,” I say, feeling a knot of tension rise. “He wants to open a branch in Notting Hill. He wants to rename the shop the Notting Hill Family Deli; can you believe it? We’re not even a deli!”

I’m expecting Mum to be as wounded by this idea as I am. But she just nods thoughtfully and says, “That’ll never happen. You know Jake. He needs his little schemes. Always has done.” She glances at me and smiles. “Don’t worry, Fixie. I’ll have a word.”

She sounds so easy and unruffled, the knot in my stomach starts to unclench. Mum is magic like that. She’s like one of those therapists who know where all the pressure points are. A word here, a hug there, and everything eases. Sitting here with her, I feel like all the threat has melted away. Our shop will never be anything but Farrs. And Jake will never get his stupid pretentious schemes past Mum.