I Owe You One: A Novel(90)

Mum, I suddenly think. What’s Mum going to say? And my stomach spasms with fresh terror, mixed with fury at myself.

“Morag,” I say desperately. “We love you. Please don’t go.”

“Suttons have said they’ll give me a regular space for the Cake Club,” says Morag, not meeting my eye. “They want to make it bigger, serve drinks, do live Internet events, whatever that is.… I don’t want to leave,” she says, her voice sharpening with distress. “None of us do. But—”

“None of us?” I echo stupidly. “What—”

“All the Cake Club members have said they’ll come with me. They’ll come to events at Suttons. It’s not too far.”

There’s a prickling silence. The subtext is obvious: They’ll do all their shopping at Suttons too.

Fear is knotting round my throat. Mum trusted us with the shop and we’ve lost our best member of staff, plus our core customers. And I know Mum put us all in charge, but I can’t help feeling responsible. I swallow hard a few times, trying to get my thoughts straight.

“You haven’t accepted Suttons yet?”

“I’ve told them I need to think.” She finally meets my gaze, her eyes sorrowful yet resolute. “But, Fixie, there’s not much to think about.”

“Morag, let me fix this.” My words come tumbling out. “Please. Let me at least come to you with a proposal. Give me forty-eight hours to … to sort it out.”

“All right,” says Morag, and she pats my arm before she walks away. But I can see she hasn’t changed her mind.

For the rest of the morning I’m in a kind of internal frenzy. I deal with customers pleasantly—but inside I’m churning. I keep thinking, How did I let this happen? I keep looking around the shop, trying to see it through Mum’s eyes. And when I do, a slightly cold feeling comes over me. It doesn’t look right. It doesn’t look Farrs.

I’m going to have it out with Nicole tonight. And Jake. I’m going to insist on a few things. Those garden lanterns have got to go. We need all our display tables back. Nicole needs to realize we’re not a yoga center, we’re a shop. I’m going to be stern, implacable …

But, oh God.

Even as I’m having these thoughts, I know I’ll let myself down. My voice will shake. I’ll stutter and flush. The ravens will flap and I’ll crumble.

On impulse, I head to the back room and dial Seb’s number. When he answers, I launch straight in: “Seb, I don’t know what to do, I have to read the riot act to Jake and Nicole tonight, but I always let myself down, I get so nervous I can’t even speak, but I have to speak—”

I break off, realizing I don’t even know what I want; I just needed to share all this with him.

“Hey!” says Seb gently. “Fixie, don’t worry. You’ve got this.” And he sounds so sure, my confidence zooms up again. Maybe I have got this. “You want me to come over for lunch? Have a sandwich, talk it through?”

—

It hadn’t occurred to me that no one at Farrs has met Seb yet. As he walks into the shop in his smart coat and kisses me, right in front of everyone, I’m aware of all the staff turning to gawp at us, in a totally unprofessional way, and I can’t help feeling proud. He looks properly handsome, his face all flushed from the cold.

“So, this is Farrs,” he says, looking around. “It’s fantastic!”

I want to say, “It’s not; it’s underperforming and it’s all my fault,” but that can wait till lunch.

“Hello, welcome to Farrs,” says Stacey, sidling up and batting her eyelashes at Seb. “Any … needs I can help you with?”

I hide a spark of frustration. Stacey must not pause suggestively before saying the word needs. I’ve told her that before. And has she unbuttoned her top?

“I’m fine,” says Seb, smiling at her. “Thanks.”

“Funny story,” says Greg, coming forward and surveying Seb with his prominent eyes. “Fixie once brought a boyfriend here and he was trying to show off with the knives and he chopped his finger off.”

There’s a stunned silence. I glance at Seb, and I can see he’s trying to think of a reply.

Oh God, if Morag leaves, how am I going to stay sane, even?

“That’s not really a funny story, is it, Greg?” I say, trying to sound relaxed while killing him with my eyes. “And it was only a tiny slice. He hardly needed to go to hospital.”

“Well, we all laughed,” says Greg with a shrug. “Didn’t last,” he says to Seb. “Don’t even remember his name now. Oh yeah, I do—Matthew McConnell.”

“OK!” I say shrilly. “Well, we’d better get going; see you later, guys.…”

I grab Seb, hustle him out of the shop, and only breathe out once we’re safely on the pavement. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly.” His eyes crinkle in amusement. “They’re great.”

“They’re all deranged.”

“They watch out for you. I like that.” He squeezes my hand. “Now, come on. Let me buy you lunch.”

There’s a sandwich shop opposite Farrs, and it’s too freezing to venture any farther, so we duck in there and find a tiny table at the back, where no one can overhear us.