I Owe You One(10)

On the face of it, this man is nothing like my dad. My dad was a weather-beaten former market trader. This guy is a thirty-something professional in a posh tie. But I’m hearing exactly the same note of energy; the same pragmatism; the same impatience with clever-clever know-it-alls. Dad had no time for theories either. “Get on and do it,” he’d say.

“All I want is to hire someone bright and savvy and tough who knows how the world works,” the guy is saying now, thrusting a hand through his frondy hair. “Someone who’s been in the world, hasn’t just written a dissertation about it. They don’t even need a bloody degree! They need some sense! Sense!”

He’s lean and energetic-looking, with an end-of-summer tan. Deep-brown hair, lighter where the sun’s caught it. As he reaches for his coffee again, the fronds cast shadows over his face. His cheekbones are two long, strong planes. His eyes are … can’t quite tell. Mid-brown or hazel, I think, peering surreptitiously at him. Then the light catches them and I see a tinge of green. They’re woodland eyes.

It’s a thing of mine, classifying eyes. Mine are double espresso. Ryan’s are Californian sky. Mum’s are deep-sea blue. And this guy’s are woodland eyes.

“I know,” he says more calmly, his ire apparently vanished. “So I’m having another meeting with Chloe next week. I’m sure she’s really looking forward to it.” His mouth curves into a sudden, infectious smile.

He can laugh at himself. That’s one up on Dad, who was the sweetest, most softhearted person in the world but didn’t really get the concept of banter or laughing at yourself. You could never have sent Dad an irreverent, jokey birthday card. He would have just been hurt or offended.

“Oh. That.” The guy shifts on his chair. “Look, I’m sorry.” He passes a hand through his hair again, but this time he doesn’t look dynamic; he looks upset. “I’m just … It’s not happening. You know Briony, she gets ahead of herself, so … no. No home gym, not for now. Tanya’s designs were great, she’s very talented, but … Yeah. I’ll pay her for her time, of course.… No, not with dinner,” he adds firmly. “With a proper invoice. I insist.” He nods a few times. “OK. I’ll see you soon. Cheers.”

The wry blade of humor is back in his voice—but as he puts his phone away, he stares out of the window as though trying to rebalance himself. It’s weird, but I feel like I know this guy. Like, I get him. If we weren’t two uptight British people in a London coffee shop, maybe I’d strike up conversation with him.

But we are. And that’s just not what you do.

So I do that traditional London thing of pretending I didn’t hear a word of his phone call and staring carefully into midair in a way that won’t attract his gaze. The guy starts typing at his laptop and I glance at my watch—5:45 P.M. I should go soon.

My phone buzzes with a text and I reach for it, madly hoping it’s Jake saying: Ryan’s here. Or, even better, Ryan texting me himself. But it’s not, of course; it’s Hannah, replying to the text I sent her earlier. I quickly scan her words:

Ryan’s back? I thought he was in L.A.

Unable to stop smiling, I type a quick reply:

He was!!! But he’s here and he’s unattached and he was asking about me!!!!

I press SEND, then instantly realize my error. I’ve put too many exclamation marks. Hannah will see them as warning signs. She’ll be on the phone within half a minute.

I’ve been friends with Hannah since we were eleven and both elected as class monitors. At once we knew we’d found kindred spirits. We’re both organized. We both love lists. We both get things done. Although, to be fair, Hannah gets things done even more efficiently than I do. She never procrastinates or finds an excuse. Whatever the task is, she does it straightaway, whether it’s her tax form or cleaning out her fridge or telling a guy that she didn’t like the way he kissed, on their very first date. (Fair play to him, he took it on the chin. He said, “How do you like to be kissed, then?” And she showed him. And now they’re married.)

She’s the most levelheaded, straight-talking person I know. She works as an actuary and she starts Christmas shopping in July and … here we go. Her name’s popping up on my screen. Knew it.

“Hi, Hannah.” I answer my phone casually, as though I don’t know why she’s calling. “How are you?”

“Ryan, huh?” she says, ignoring my greeting. “What happened to that girl in L.A.?”

“Apparently it’s over.” I try to speak calmly, although a voice inside me is singing, It’s over! It’s over!

“Hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Fixie, I thought you were over him. Finally.”

I don’t blame her for that emphasis on finally. I’ve been spilling my heart to Hannah about Ryan pretty much since the first day we met. When we were eighteen I used to drag her around endless London pubs, just in the hope of bumping into him. She used to call it the Ryan Route. And it would be fair to say that last spring, after Ryan went back to Hollywood, every other conversation we had was about him.

OK, every conversation.

“I am!” I lower my voice so the whole coffee shop doesn’t hear. “But apparently he was asking after me.” Just the thought of Ryan asking after me makes me feel giddy, but I force myself to sound matter-of-fact. “So that’s interesting. That’s all. Just interesting.”