I Owe You One: A Novel(67)

“Ryan’s not the love of my life,” I say firmly. “He’s really not.”

“He’ll be back,” says Leila wisely, and pats my knee.

I have to get it into Leila’s head that I don’t want Ryan back. But I’ll leave that for another time. I sink onto the buttery leather, cradling my coffee, and watch in a slight trance as Leila slits open each envelope, smiles at the card, puts it down, and reaches for the next one.

“Oh,” she says suddenly. “That reminds me. He left this for you.”

“Who?”

The man, silly!”

She hands me a 6 Folds Place envelope and I stare at it blankly. There’s the sound of a timer from the kitchen, and Leila gets to her feet.

“That’s my egg,” she says. “D’you want an egg, Fixie?”

“No,” I say hurriedly, my stomach heaving at the thought. “Thanks, though.”

As she leaves the room, I slowly open the envelope. There’s no note inside, just the coffee sleeve. I pull it out and stare at it. It’s been written on, in Seb’s writing:

Paid in full. With thanks.

And, underneath, his signature.

As I read his words, I feel a deep wrench of—what, exactly? I’m not sure. Wistfulness? Longing? My brain keeps flashing back to dancing with him last night. The lights playing over his face; the pounding music. His eyes on mine. The connection we had. I want somehow to go back there, to that place, to him.

But let’s get real. That’s never going to happen.

Giving myself a mental shakedown, I slide the coffee sleeve back into the envelope. It’s a souvenir, I tell myself as I fold down the flap. A fun memento. I’ll never see him again and he’ll probably marry Whiny and that’s … you know. Fine. His choice.

“Is it something interesting?” says Leila, coming back in with her egg and looking at the envelope.

“No.” I shake my head with a wry smile.

“Shall I chuck it for you, then?” she says helpfully.

She holds out her hand, and before I can stop myself I exclaim sharply, “No!”

My fingers have tightened around it. I’m not giving it up. I’m not throwing it away. Even if that doesn’t make any sense.

“I mean … don’t worry,” I add, seeing Leila’s taken-aback expression. “I think I’ll hold on to it. Just in case. You know.”

“Of course!” says Leila in her easy, unquestioning way. “Come on, share my egg with me, Fixie,” she says cozily, sitting back down beside me. “You need some food inside you. And then …” Her eyes sparkle at me. “Then we’ll do your nails.”





Fourteen




Hannah’s house is like a John Lewis catalog. All the furniture is from John Lewis, plus most of the curtains and cushions. Her wedding list was half at John Lewis and half at Farrs, and, actually, all the things blend together pretty well. They’re good quality, nothing too way out … all very tasteful.

And usually I think Hannah’s house represents her perfectly. John Lewis is such a calm, reassuring place, and Hannah’s such a calm, reassuring person. But the Hannah in front of me now is totally different. She’s on edge. Her brows are knitted. She’s pacing around her tidy white kitchen, nibbling on a carrot stick.

“He doesn’t want to know,” she’s saying. “He doesn’t want to know. I’ve tried talking to him, but it’s like he just doesn’t want to know.”

“Hannah, why don’t you sit down?” I say, because she’s a bit unnerving, pacing around like that. But she doesn’t even seem to hear me. She’s lost in her own thoughts.

“I mean, what happened to ‘for the procreation of children and their nurture’?” she suddenly says. “What happened to that?”

“Huh?” I stare at her.

“It’s from our wedding!” she says impatiently. “Marriage is, quote, ‘for the procreation of children and their nurture.’ I said that to Tim. I said, ‘Weren’t you listening to that bit, Tim?’ ”

“You quoted your wedding vows?” I say in disbelief.

“I have to get through to him somehow! What’s wrong with him?” Hannah finally sinks down at the kitchen table. “Tell me again what he said.”

“He said he’s stressed out by it all,” I say warily. “He seemed a bit overwhelmed. He said having a baby was going to be … er …”

Do not say “a nightmare.”

“What?” demands Hannah.

“Tough,” I say after a pause. “He thought it was going to be tough.”

“Well, it will be, I guess,” says Hannah, sounding upset. “But won’t it be worth it?”

“Er … I suppose so.” I bite my lip, remembering Tim’s beleaguered look. “By the way, what’s Le Mahs?”

“What?”

“Le Mahs. Or La Mars.”

“Oh, Lamaze,” says Hannah. “It’s, like, a baby system. There are Lamaze births, Lamaze toys …”

“Right. And who’s Annabel Karmel?”

“She’s the baby-puree guru,” says Hannah at once. “You need to start at six months. Ice-cube trays.”