I Owe You One(103)

A bleep comes from my pocket and I yank out my phone again, thinking, Seb? But it’s a text from Mum:

Sorry I missed you, Fixie, feeling a lot better today. Hope all OK. Love, Mum xxx

I glance up at Morag, who is now gesturing at a saucepan, then read Mum’s words again: Hope all OK.

I hope so too. I really do.

When Morag’s finished, I wave to get her attention, and as she approaches, I say, “Morag, could we have a chat?”

I usher her into the back room, my head a mishmash of thoughts. I don’t know what I’m going to say or where I’m going to start. But I know that I have to reach out to Morag, urgently. I have to turn things around.

“Morag …” I begin, once we’re both sitting down with the door closed and cups of tea. “Everything’s been a bit of a mess since Mum went off to Spain.”

“Yes, love,” says Morag, in her sensible, unvarnished way. “It has.”

“But I’m going to change that. We’re going to cancel all the yoga, we’re going to make Cake Club a priority, we’re going to restock the shop.…”

“Good,” says Morag. “Because it needs it.”

“I want to look at our online business again. And we need a really big push before Christmas. We need to turn things around. We can turn things around.”

“Yes,” says Morag. “I think you can.”

You. Not we.

Has she mentally left already?

There’s a pause and I sip my tea, not quite knowing what I’m going to say next. Morag is so sensible, I think, as I stare at her practical hands with their transparent nail polish. She knows the customers. She knows buying. She knows pricing. She’s the one who should have been sitting round the table all this time, making decisions with me. Not Nicole. Not Jake. Not Uncle Ned.

“Morag, if we can persuade you to stay with us,” I hear myself saying, “I’d like you to be a director.”

The words are out before I’ve even stopped to consider them. But the minute I’ve uttered them, I know they’re right. Morag makes this place what it is. She should have ownership.

“A director?” Morag peers at me, startled.

“We haven’t valued you nearly enough,” I say. “And I’m sorry. Morag, please stay.”

“So this is a bribe,” she says at once.

“It’s not.” I shake my head vigorously. “At least, it’s not meant that way. It’s recognition. Of everything that you do.”

“A director,” says Morag slowly, as though getting used to the idea. Then she looks at me suspiciously. “Is your mum in agreement with this? Your mum’s big on family. I’m not family.”

Family first runs through my mind. Family bloody first. I’m not saying Dad was wrong, I’ll never say that, but maybe I’m starting to see “family” differently. It’s not just the people you share genes with; it’s the people you share loyalty and friendship and respect with. It’s the people you love.

“You’re part of the Farrs family,” I say. “And that’s what counts.”

“Fixie, you didn’t answer the question,” says Morag sharply, and I think, That’s why we need her: She doesn’t miss a trick. “Does your mum even know you’re offering me this?”

“I haven’t asked Mum, but I don’t need to.” I look at Morag resolutely. “I know she’ll agree.”

I’ve never felt so positive in my life. I know this is the right thing. Mum charged me with keeping this shop safe, and that’s what I’m doing.

“Well, I’ll think about it,” says Morag, finishing her tea. “I’d better get back to the shop floor.”

And she’s so calm, so unruffled, so impressive, that I cross my fingers all the way back to the cash desk and think, Please stay, please stay, please stay.

I think she will.

—

For some reason we get a group of Japanese tourists in that morning, looking for Union Jack memorabilia. Morag, Stacey, and I sell twelve mugs, sixteen cushion covers, and a calendar to them, while Greg attempts to “speak Japanese” in phrases he’s picked up off manga cartoons. Although none of the Japanese people seem to understand a word.

“What were you saying?” I demand, as soon as they’ve all left.

“Not sure,” he admits. “Kill, probably.”

“Kill?” I stare at him. “You were saying kill in Japanese?”

“It might not have been,” he says after a moment’s thought. “It might have been decapitate.”

“Decapitate?” I echo in horror. “You greeted a group of customers with the word decapitate?”

“They didn’t understand,” Stacey chimes in. “They just thought he was an idiot. How’s your boyfriend, Fixie?” she adds seamlessly, blinking at me.

“Oh,” I say, taken off-balance. “He’s … Um. Yes.”

Trust Stacey to catch me off guard. Avoiding her curious eyes—Greg looks pretty interested too—I glance at my watch.

“All good,” I add briskly. “In fact, I have to go. And, new rule,” I add over my shoulder as I head off to get my coat. “Anyone who says decapitate to a customer gets fired.”