I Owe You One: A Novel(88)

At once I feel guilty and intrusive for even trying to open it, and I hastily return to the living room. As Seb appears, his hair still damp, smelling of Molton Brown shower gel, I say casually, “So how big is the flat altogether?”

“It’s this, really,” says Seb, gesturing at the big room. “What you see.”

“Uh-huh.” I nod, but I can feel a tiny cord of tension in my chest. Why hasn’t he mentioned the other room?

And I know I should leave it, it’s none of my business … but I just can’t. I can’t leave things.

“Nice big living room for a one-bedroom flat,” I say conversationally. “It’s massive!”

“Oh, well, there is another room,” says Seb after a pause. “It was James’s.”

He flashes me a brief smile, and I wince in sympathy, because I’d already guessed. I suddenly remember that first conversation I heard in the coffee shop. Briony wanted to turn a room into a home gym, didn’t she? It must have been that room.

“It’s hard,” I say in a gentle voice. “I remember my mum clearing out my dad’s stuff.”

“Yes,” says Seb noncommittally, and his face closes up a little. And now I regret even bringing up the subject when everything’s so bright and perfect.

“Well … thank you,” I say, more lightheartedly. “Thank you for my hairbrush. Thank you for dinner. Thank you for …” I trail away, not needing to continue. He knows what I mean.

“Thank you.” Seb comes close and kisses my hair, playing with the strands, winding them round his fingers. “I always wanted to date an Olympic skater,” he adds. “You’re pretty sexy on the ice, did I mention that?”

“I shouldn’t have showed off,” I say, shaking my head. “I feel bad now. I was rude to Briony.”

“You feel bad?” says Seb incredulously. “Do not feel bad about her.” He swivels round so that we’re both facing a massive wall mirror, and he looks at my reflection, his eyes glinting, his chin resting on my head. “I don’t know who this girl is or how she came into my life,” he says, his voice deadpan, and I can’t help smiling.

“No idea.” I echo his tone. “It’s a mystery.”

There’s silence, and Seb’s expression becomes more serious.

“You are in my life?” he says.

“Yes,” I say, and my voice suddenly falters. “I hope so.”

“Well, me too.” He strokes my hair and his eyes crinkle at mine in the mirror. And right now his life is the only place I want to be.





Twenty-one




Days turn into a week, then two … and it seems as if I’ve always been in Seb’s life. I stay every night at his place, popping back now and then for another supply of clothes. I’m barely at home anymore. I’m barely conscious of the world. I’m intoxicated by Seb. By his body and his mind. His voice and his laugh. The touch of him in the morning; the sound of his breathing at night.

When I’m not with him, I’m yearning for him. Everything else has receded. All the problems I used to have seem a little blurry—nothing except Seb seems that important anymore.

I smile at customers who put items back in the wrong place. I laugh when Stacey arrives at work late. I find Greg’s idiosyncrasies funny. Why shouldn’t he show off his double-jointed thumbs to customers when they’re trying to pay? The world is a wonderful place. I skive off a little—not much, just the odd afternoon or morning—so I can meet Seb out of work, or cook for him, or lie in bed with him for a delicious half hour longer.

The more I get to know him, the better I like him. His thoughts are straightforward. His take on life is wry but optimistic. We’ve talked for hours, and I haven’t once winced or frowned or thought, He thinks what? So many guys seem great until you actually find out what’s inside their brain, whereupon you run for cover, panting, “Oh my God, lucky escape!” to yourself. But I’ve spent two weeks exploring Seb’s brain and I haven’t stumbled on any gnarly knots of anger or walls of arrogance. Nor has he told any tasteless jokes and expected me to fall about in hysterics.

The only trip wire—the only one—is his brother’s stuff. His brother’s room. That whole situation. A couple of times I’ve suggested helping him sort out the magazines and he’s batted me away. Once or twice I’ve mentioned James’s room in passing and he’s changed the subject.

Then one day, when he was out, I took the key—it’s on a hook in the kitchen; it’s not hidden away—and very quickly opened the door and peeped inside.

I think I’d imagined a neatly kept bedroom with a few pieces of memorabilia around the place. I hadn’t imagined what I saw: a shambolically untidy, dusty room, with a screensaver still alive on the computer screen and a wizened apple core on the desk and a recycling bin overflowing with empty water bottles and the duvet rumpled as though it hadn’t been touched since—

Then I realized the truth. It hasn’t been touched since.

I stood there for a while, very still, my head teeming with thoughts. Then I locked the door again and put the key back in the kitchen. I was remembering Seb’s resolutely calm, almost upbeat demeanor when he talked about his family. The words he said, almost like a mantra: “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’ve moved on, I’m at peace with it.”