I Owe You One: A Novel(29)

“Oh, right,” I say politely, because it’s none of my business—and it feels as though the conversation should perhaps end there. But Sebastian’s face is animated; his brow is creasing up; he seems like he wants to share his thoughts.

“As it happens, I’ve been consulting ‘the skiing workout guru,’ ” he suddenly says, making quote marks with his fingers. “Did you know that the skiing workout guru lives in Acton?”

“No,” I say, smiling. “I didn’t even know the skiing workout guru existed.” I nearly add, “I’ve never skied in my life,” but I can tell Sebastian is on a roll.

“Nor did I, till my girlfriend gave me two vouchers for my birthday and insisted I go to see him. So I went. Twice.”

“Right. And how was he?”

“Absolute rubbish!” exclaims Sebastian indignantly. “I’m offended by how rubbish he was. I’m shocked!”

His outrage is so comical, I break into laughter—although I can tell there’s genuine grievance there too.

“How was he rubbish?” I can’t help asking.

“The first session, all he did was describe how he won a bronze in Vancouver. Today he described how he just missed a bronze in Sochi. I could have got that off Wikipedia in five minutes, if I were interested, which I’m not.”

I can’t help laughing again. “What about exercises?”

“He revealed the insightful information that lunges are a good idea and suggested I come back twice a week for the next six months.”

“What a rip-off!” I say in heartfelt tones.

“Exactly!” exclaims Sebastian. “I’m glad you agree. I’m sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.” He glances at the map on his phone and I see an icon of a cab coming up the High Street. “Anyway, enough of that. How’s life been treating you?”

I open my mouth to say, “Fine,” but it doesn’t seem honest, somehow.

“Actually, my mum’s been in hospital,” I say instead.

“Oh no.” He looks up from his phone in dismay. “And here I am going on … Is there anything I can do?”

This is such a kind, ludicrous instinct that I can’t help smiling again. What on earth could he do?

“It’s fine. She’s better. She’s off on holiday.”

“Oh good,” he says—and he really seems to mean it. At that moment a minicab pulls up and he signals to the driver. “This is me,” he says. “Nice to see you again.”

“Bye,” I say, as he opens the car door. “I’m sorry Acton hasn’t been kind to you. Collapsing ceilings and dodgy workout gurus. We must do better.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” he says with a grin. “Acton has a place in my heart.”

“We do have an amazing Thai restaurant here,” I say. “If you’re into Thai food.”

“I love Thai food.” His eyes crinkle at me. “Thanks for the tip. Oh, and remember.” He pauses, his hand on the car door. “I still owe you one. I’m serious. You haven’t forgotten?”

“Of course not!” I say. “How could I?”

I watch as the cab drives off, still smiling at his good-humored outrage—then head on my way.

—

The little exchange has buoyed my spirits, but as I get back to the house I start to feel flat again. I reheat the pasta sauce, inhaling the delicious scent, then put on The Archers, because that’s what Mum would do too—but it feels fake. I don’t listen to The Archers, so I don’t know who any of the characters are.

“Hey, Fixie.” Nicole wanders into the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts. I’m hoping she’s going to offer to help, but she doesn’t even seem to have noticed that I’m cooking. She leans against the counter, picks up the chunk of Parmesan I was about to grate, and starts to nibble it. “So I’ve had a great idea,” she says thoughtfully. “I think we should have yoga at the shop.”

“Yoga?” I echo. “What do you mean? Like … a yoga section?”

“Yoga sessions,” she says, as though it’s obvious. “We should run sessions in the evenings. I could do them.”

I put my wooden spoon down on Mum’s bunny-rabbit ceramic spoon rest (￡6.99, bestseller at Easter) and peer at her to see if she’s joking. But she meets my gaze with a full-on, Nicole-taking-herself-seriously expression. The thing about Nicole is, she’s all vague and wafty until she wants something, whereupon she can suddenly become quite gimletty and focused.

“Nicole, we’re a shop,” I say carefully. “We sell saucepans. We don’t do yoga.”

“We have the Cake Club,” she counters.

“Yes, but that’s a selling event. We sell cake tins and stuff. It enhances our business.”

“Loads of shops do all sorts of evening events,” she responds. “It would build up the clientele.”

“But where?”

I’m picturing the shop, trying to imagine even two people putting down yoga mats, and I’m failing.

“We’d have to move a few things,” she says breezily. “Get rid of a couple of displays.”

“Every night? And then put them back?”