I Owe You One: A Novel(78)

“Nicole, what’s up?” I persist. “Come on. Tell me.”

“Well, OK,” she says at last. “Drew wants me to go to Abu Dhabi.” She throws the words out in a tremulous voice, as though saying, “Drew’s having an affair.” Then she adds, “He wants me to visit him.”

“Right,” I say carefully. “I mean … that seems like a good idea, doesn’t it? In fact, I spoke to him about it recently.”

“He basically gave me an ultimatum!” Nicole seems astounded. “He was like, ‘Nicole, I’ve had enough. I want to see you.’ ”

“Well, isn’t that natural? I think he just misses you.”

“He’s so judgmental,” she continues as though she didn’t hear me. “He was like, ‘We’re married, Nicole.’ And ‘You promised to come out.’ I was like, ‘Stop criticizing me, Drew. You’re so negative.’ ”

I look at her beautiful brow, all creased up with distress. I’ve wondered about a million times in my life what it’s like to be Nicole—and now I’m getting a bit of an inkling. When you’ve been adored and admired and praised your whole life, maybe any tiny altercation feels like criticism.

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to criticize you,” I say. “I’m sure he just wants to see you. I think you should go!” I add encouragingly. “I bet it’s amazing out there. And warm. Go for a week. Or two weeks!”

“But what about my yoga?” says Nicole. “What about my business?”

Immediately my empathy turns to frustration. For God’s sake. Her business? Five women lying on mats? “What about your husband?” I want to retort. “What about your relationship? Don’t you value those things?”

I draw breath to say all this—then suddenly lose my nerve. That’s never been how we talk to each other. Nicole might bite my head off. And, anyway, is this the right place? Greg’s just opened the doors and three customers have come in.

“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” I say vaguely, then blink in surprise, because Jake is coming through the doors too, dressed in a sharp suit and eyeing the customers with his usual supercilious displeasure.

“Is Bob here?” he demands as he approaches, and I catch a heavy waft of aftershave.

“Bob? No. Don’t think so. He’ll be here tomorrow. Why?”

“I was trying to get through to him yesterday.” Jake frowns. “I thought I’d swing by on the off chance.”

“Why do you need to speak to Bob?” I say in surprise.

“Oh, something I noticed in the accounts.”

“What did you notice in the accounts?” I ask at once.

“Shit, Fixie!” he says impatiently. “Does it matter? Whatever!”

“Right,” I say warily, because I sense he’s not in the mood for conversation. He looks fairly shocking this morning. His face is pale, with purple shadows under his eyes. And he seems more lined, somehow.

“Heavy night last night?” I try teasing him. Usually Jake would grin and tell me how many bottles of champagne he got through and what they cost, but today he glowers at me.

“Just lay off, OK?”

“Oh, excuse me,” says a pleasant-looking woman, approaching us. “Do you have baskets? To put things in?” she adds. “Shopping baskets,” she clarifies, as though the phrase has just occurred to her. “You know what I mean?”

Jake eyes her silently for a moment. Then he goes over to the stack of red plastic baskets, picks one up, and proffers it to the woman with elaborate care.

“Here,” he says. “They were in that pile. That pile there, by the door where you walk in? Right where you can see them? That one?”

I stare at him in utter horror. You can’t speak to customers like that. Dad would kill him.

It’s only because of his affected drawl that he gets away with it. The woman stares at him uncertainly, clearly not sure whether he’s being sarcastic or not, then gives him the benefit of the doubt and says brightly, “Thank you!”

“Jake, you can’t—” I begin, as soon as she’s walked off. “That wasn’t— You could have offended her—”

Oh God, I’m stuttering again. Why can’t I sound as confident in actual speech as I do inside my head?

“Well, for fuck’s sake,” says Jake defensively. “What kind of moron can’t see the baskets?”

He heads off to the back room and I count to ten, telling myself that this time I have to confront him. He can’t jeopardize our relationship with customers, even if he has got a sore head.

I make my way to the back room and push open the door, expecting to see Jake on his phone, or striding around, or being Jake-ish—but to my astonishment he’s sitting on one of the foam chairs, his head back, his eyes closed. Is he asleep? Whether or not he is, he looks exhausted. Backing away, I close the door quietly and return to the shop floor. “Now, young lady,” comes a stern voice, and I glance up to see a gray-haired woman in a tweed coat approaching me. “Where’s all your plastic storage gone?”

“Oh, right,” I say. “We do stock storage containers, actually. That aisle.” I gesture helpfully, but the woman doesn’t seem impressed.