I Owe You One(123)

“Fixie?” Mum looks taken aback.

“Fixie was the head of the family while you were away,” says Jake. “A lot of stuff went on and … well … Fixie took care of it.”

“Fixie was the head,” Nicole agrees. “She sorted us all out. She was boss.”

“Boss-y,” amends Jake wryly, and Leila gives a nervous giggle, which she hastily quells.

“I see.” Mum looks around at the three of us, as though reappraising things. “Well … to Fixie, then.”

“To Fixie.” Jake raises his glass. “For everything.” He meets my eyes gravely and I nod back, unable to speak, my head hot.

“Fixie.” Nicole nods, her glass rising too. “Well done.”

“You know me,” I say, finally finding my voice. “I just have to fix stuff. It’s always been my flaw—” I break off as I see Seb shaking his head, his eyes warm and loving.

“It’s your strength,” he says. “It’s what makes you. Don’t ever stop fixing stuff.”

“We need you to fix stuff!” agrees Nicole. “Except the coffee machine,” she adds as an afterthought. “I’m totally on that.”

“To Fixie,” says Leila eagerly, and Seb lifts his glass, his hand tight in mine.

“To Fixie,” he says. “To Fixie Farr.”

“Well,” I say, still flustered. “Thanks very much and … and … let’s have lunch.”

Mum goes off to freshen up, and the rest of us crack into catering-team mode, and in a few minutes we’re serving up lamb casserole with baked potatoes and broccoli, along with Mum’s favorite crusty bread.

“Wait,” I say, as she sits down and Jake starts pouring wine. “Wait. We haven’t got enough seats. I don’t understand …” I look around the table, confused, then realize it’s because Seb’s here. There’s an extra person.

“Use that chair?” Seb suggests, pointing at Dad’s empty carver, and I stiffen automatically.

“No, we don’t ever use that. It was Dad’s. But it’s fine—we can bring one in from the kitchen.…”

“You sit in it, Fixie,” says Nicole suddenly, and I gape at her, stunned that she would even suggest it. “Why not? You wouldn’t mind, would you, Mum?”

We’re all looking at Dad’s chair, and back at Mum, and I can see her thinking hard, looking at us again, her unfamiliar earrings dangling. I can almost read her mind: Everything’s changed.

“Yes,” she says slowly. “I think it’s time to use it again. Fixie, love, you sit in it.”

“But …” I flounder. Dad’s chair? The chair at the head of the table? Me?

“Go on,” says Jake, nodding at the chair. “Sit down, or I’ll take it. Seriously, you deserve it,” he adds in a nicer voice.

“I’ll lay an extra place,” says Leila quickly. “It’ll only take a second.”

As Nicole passes broccoli around the table and Seb pours out the wine, I venture toward the big heavy chair. As I pull it out, I’m remembering Dad in this chair. His authority. And just for an instant I think, I can’t sit here, I’m not worthy—but then I glance up and catch Seb’s eye. He gives me a tiny, infinitesimal nod, and I suddenly remember those words he hurled at me in fury: You need to start thinking less about what you owe other people and more about what you owe yourself.

He might have been angry, but he was right.

I owe this to myself. I do. I owe it to myself.

I sit down in my place, pull the chair in with more confidence, and shake out the napkin that Leila’s set for me, with a smile of thanks. And as I survey the faces that I love so dearly, I feel a kind of contentment. So we’re not flash. So we’re not moneyed. So we don’t have all the answers or know exactly where we’re going. We’ll still be all right, our family. We’ll be all right.





To my reader





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


I owe one to many, many people.

Francesca at Transworld, Kara and Susan at Penguin Random House NYC, and all my woderful publishers around the world.

Julia and Becky, Debbie, Jess and Sharon and the whole amazing Team Kinsella, with a special thank-you to Richard Ogle.

My tireless agents, Araminta, Marina, Kim, Nicki, and Sam and all at LAW and ILA.

My writerly friends for cocktails and wise counsel—especially Jojo, Lisa, Jenny, Kristy, Linda, Joanna, Tom, and the Board.

The very helpful owners and staff of Harts of Stur—a fabulous family store!

My family—I owe you about eleventy billion.

And finally: the nameless American man who asked me to mind his laptop in a Starbucks one time, and instantly triggered my imagination...

I definitely owe you one.





By Sophie Kinsella


Confessions of a Shopaholic Shopaholic Takes Manhattan Shopaholic Ties the Knot Can You Keep a Secret?

Shopaholic & Sister The Undomestic Goddess Shopaholic & Baby Remember Me?

Twenties Girl Mini Shopaholic I’ve Got Your Number Wedding Night Shopaholic to the Stars Finding Audrey Shopaholic to the Rescue My Not So Perfect Life Surprise Me

I Owe You One