I Owe You One: A Novel(77)

“So,” I say, scrabbling for my bag. “I ought to be going …”

“Chess!” exclaims Briony, her eyes lighting upon the board. “Excellent!”

“Fixie brought that too,” says Seb.

“So kind,” says Briony. “How did she know we’re both mad about chess?”

“Lucky guess,” I say with an awkward laugh. “Anyway, get well soon, Seb. Bye.”

I grasp his hand briefly in a weird kind of half shake, avoiding his gaze, then get to my feet.

“Thanks again, Fixie,” says Seb, and I mumble something indistinct in reply.

“Yes, thank you so much,” says Briony in her penetrating, confident voice. She’s not being Mean Newsreader anymore; she’s being Elegant Duchess. “We’re both incredibly grateful. Let me see you out,” she adds in a hostess-like manner, as though she owns the ward and the hospital and, in fact, everything.

We both walk to the door of the ward, whereupon Briony says again, “We’re so grateful,” and I murmur, “Honestly, it was nothing.”

As we reach the double doors, her eye falls on my dog-print dress and she says with interest, “That’s Aura Fortuna, isn’t it?”

“What?” I say blankly.

“The iconic print,” she says, as though it’s obvious. “Except … shouldn’t the dogs have hats on?” She looks even more closely at the fabric. “Oh, wait. It’s a knockoff, isn’t it?”

“Er … dunno,” I say, confused. I’ve never heard of Aura Fortuna. Or any iconic print. I just saw the dress and I liked the dogs.

“Hmm,” says Briony in kind, pitying tones. “I kind of think if you’re not going to do it properly, you shouldn’t even try?”

Her words are like a stinging slap. I can’t even think of how to respond.

“Right,” I say at last. “Well … nice to meet you.”

“You too.” Briony clasps both my hands with a final, wide smile, which clearly reads: “Go away and stay away.” She closes with, “And as I say, thank you so much. You did a wonderful job and we’re both so grateful to you.”

My face is burning with mortification all the way down in the lift. But by the time I’m pushing my way out into the freezing air, I’m seeing the funny side of it.

Kind of.

I mean, you have to see the funny side of things, otherwise … what? You start brooding morosely on why he’s with someone so blinkered, and what does he see in her, and how can anyone be that rude, and …

Oh God. I am brooding morosely. Stop it, Fixie.

A thought suddenly occurs to me and I pull out the coffee sleeve. I know it’s only a silly game, I know it’s meaningless, but I might as well see what he wrote. I pause in the street, breathing out steam in the cold air and reading his handwritten words:

You saved my life, Fixie. To repay you that is impossible. Just know that from now on I owe you everything.

And underneath is his signature.

I read the words twice over, hearing his voice in my head, seeing his warm, honest smile in my mind’s eye. My eyes become a little hot. Then I shove the coffee sleeve back in my bag and stride on, down the pavement, shaking my head almost angrily. Enough. It’s all stupid. I need to forget about it.





Sixteen




And I do. I manage to put him out of my mind. At least, most of the time. It’s easy enough to throw myself into the shop, what with Christmas heading toward us like a high-speed train and Stacey wanting to sell “Fifty Shades of Farrs” stockings, each containing a spatula, two clamps, and a rolling pin. (I don’t want to know.)

Mum’s been away for nearly three months, I realize one morning, with a jolt. It’s already November. She’s got to come home soon, surely? She loves the run-up to Christmas and all our traditions. We’d normally be making our Christmas cake around now, but I don’t want to do it without her, so I haven’t even bought the ingredients.

I’m at the shop one morning, watching Nicole put away her yoga stuff after an early-morning class, feeling pinpricks of frustration. She still doesn’t do it properly. The customers will arrive and she’ll be putting all the wrong things on the wrong display tables. We had to sell a toaster for a fiver the other day because she’d put it on the ￡5 table. It’s so annoying. And it’s even worse now we have all our Christmas displays up, because if you keep moving them, they start to look shabby. The gingerbread house on the front table already looks a bit disheveled. We’ll have to make another one.

I spray “Yuletide scent” around the place to give it some atmosphere (￡4.99 and easily as good as a posh brand) and tidy up the display of festive napkins. Nicole is wandering over, clutching three yoga mats, and I’m about to say something to her about being more careful with the stock—but to my surprise she looks twitchy and worried. If she’s any animal right now, it’s Anxious Rabbit. I thought yoga was supposed to calm you down?

“Nicole, are you OK?” I say at last, and she jumps about a mile.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “Yeah.”

She’s not, though. She leans against the counter and chews a nail and I notice that it’s red and raw already. It’s not as if Nicole and I are the kind of sisters who share confidences—or anything, in fact—but she looks strained and Mum’s not here and I have to say something.