I Owe You One: A Novel(6)

Sure enough, my voice has started shaking. I’m asking questions instead of making statements. Jake’s presence has that effect on me. And I hate myself for it, because it makes me sound uncertain, when I’m not—I’m not.

“They’ll learn to appreciate it.” Jake brushes me off. “We’ll have tasting evenings, that kind of thing …” He addresses Clive and Simon. “We’ll definitely make an order, guys, it’s just a question of how much.”

I feel a shaft of panic. We can’t make an order on the spot, especially in Mum’s absence.

“Jake, maybe we should talk about this first?” I venture.

“Nothing to talk about,” he shoots back, his eyes clearly telling me: “Shut up.”

Oh God. Even though the ravens are batting their wings in my face, I have to persevere. For Mum.

“I just …” My voice is wavering again and I clear my throat. “Our customers come here for sensible, value-for-money products. They don’t buy luxury food items.”

“Well, maybe we have to educate them,” snaps Jake. “Teach them. Get their mediocre taste buds used to finer flavors.” He grabs a cube of bread, scoops up some of the ￡5.99 oil, and puts it in his mouth before anyone can say anything. “I mean, this is sublime,” he says in muffled tones as he chews. “It’s on a whole different level. It’s nutty, it’s rich … you can taste the quality.… Guys, what can I say, congratulations. I’m seriously impressed.”

He holds out a hand, but neither Simon nor Clive takes it. They seem too stunned to move.

“So, which one was that?” says Jake, finally finishing his mouthful. “Was it the most expensive?”

There’s silence. I can’t look at anyone. Every fiber of me is cringing for Jake.

But, kudos to the posh: They have impeccable manners. Not a flicker runs over Clive’s face as he immediately, deftly, saves the situation.

“I’m not quite sure which one that was?” he says to Simon, his brow wrinkled.

“I’m not sure either.” Simon swiftly takes his cue. “I think the dishes have been mixed up maybe, so—”

“Probably our fault for bringing so many.”

“Absolutely,” chimes in Simon. “They all start to taste the same!”

They’re being so kind to Jake, while he’s totally oblivious, that I want to say, “Thank you, posh guys. Thank you for being so nice to my brother when he doesn’t even know it.”

But of course I don’t. Simon and Clive glance at each other and tacitly seem to agree to wrap up. We all keep smiling and chatting as they pack their stuff and suggest that we have a chat and they’ll be in touch.

As they drive away from the front of the shop, Jake and I both draw breath to speak—but he gets in first.

“Well done, Fixie,” he says, looking annoyed. “You scared them away. Nice work.”

“Look, Jake, I’m sorry,” I begin, then curse myself for apologizing. Why do I always do that? “I just … I really think—”

“I know what you think,” he cuts me off dismissively. “But I’m the one trying to be strategic about the future of the shop here. Bigger. Better. High-end. Profitable.”

“Yes, but ninety-five quid for one bottle of olive oil, Jake,” I appeal to him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” he snaps. “Harrods stock it.”

I don’t even know what to say to this. Harrods?

I’m aware of Greg glancing our way, and I hastily paste on a smile. Dad would kill us for airing family disputes on the shop floor.

“Jakey?” I turn to see Leila, Jake’s girlfriend, coming into the store, wearing an adorable yellow full-skirted dress and sunglasses on her head. Leila always reminds me of Bambi. She has long spindly legs and she wears high wedged sandals that clip-clop like hooves and she peers at the world through her long eyelashes as though she’s not sure if it’s about to shoot her. She’s very sweet and I can’t possibly argue with Jake in front of her.

Not just because she’s sweet, but because family first. Leila isn’t family. Not actual family. Not yet. She’s been going out with Jake for three years—they met in a club—and I’ve never seen them argue. Leila doesn’t seem the arguing type, although she must get angry with Jake sometimes? She’s never mentioned it, though. In fact, she once said to me, “Jake’s a real softie, isn’t he?” and I nearly fell over backward. Jake? A softie?

“Hi, Leila,” I say, kissing her. She’s as thin and tiny as a child; in fact, I’m amazed she can hold all those glossy carrier bags. “Been shopping?”

“I’ve been treating the missus,” says Jake loftily. “We got Mum’s present too.”

Jake always calls Leila “the missus,” although they’re not even engaged. I sometimes wonder if she minds, but then, I’ve never known Leila to mind about anything. Once, Jake arrived at the shop for a family meeting and it was only after an hour that we realized he’d left Leila in the car to watch out for traffic wardens. She wasn’t annoyed at all; she’d just been sitting scrolling through her phone, humming to herself. When Mum exclaimed, “Jake! How could you leave Leila like that?” he shrugged and said, “She offered.”