I Owe You One(19)

“Ryan’s coming tonight, I hear?” says Mum, brushing shadow vaguely onto her eyelids with the air of someone who really doesn’t care how it comes out. It’s not that she can’t do makeup—she used to do mine perfectly when I competed in junior skating competitions. Eye shadow, glitter, the works. But when it’s herself, she hardly bothers.

“Yes.” I try to sound casual. “Apparently he is. I wonder what brings him to the UK.”

“Fixie, darling …” Mum hesitates, brush in hand. “Be careful. I know he hurt you last year.”

Not Mum too.

“He didn’t!” My voice shoots out before I can stop it. “God! I mean, I wasn’t hurt. We had a thing, we ended … no big deal.”

Mum looks so unconvinced, I don’t know why I bother.

“I know Ryan’s always been there in your life,” she says, applying highlighter. “And we’re all fond of him. But there are lots of other men in the world, love.”

“I know,” I say, although a voice in my brain is instantly protesting, Yes, but not like Ryan.

“He may be nice-looking,” Mum continues resolutely, “and he may be a big success in Hollywood, but when it comes to emotional matters, he’s always been a bit—” She breaks off and her face creases in thought. “Oh, love, my head’s not working. What’s the word you all use? Crumbly.”

“Crumbly?” I stare at her before it hits me. “You mean flaky?”

“Flaky!” Mum meets my eye and starts to laugh. “Yes! Flaky.”

I can’t help dissolving into giggles too, even as I’m thinking: So maybe Ryan has been a bit flaky. People change, don’t they?

“Anyway.” Clearly Mum considers the lecture over. She closes up the highlighter and surveys herself without great interest. “Will we do?”

“Mascara?” I suggest.

“Oh, love. So fiddly. I leave that for other people.”

“Hi, Fixie! Hi, Joanne!” We both turn to see Hannah standing in the doorway, wearing an amazing clingy red dress. Hannah has the most sexy wardrobe in the world, which she says compensates for having the least sexy job in the world. When she tells people what she does, they goggle at her and say, “You’re an actuary?”

“Hiya!” I go to give her a hug. “I didn’t hear the doorbell.”

“Nicole was on her way out and she let me in,” says Hannah. “There’s a few guests here too, came in with me. They’ve all arrived early to help.”

This is typical of Mum’s friends. Maybe in some circles you arrive fashionably late. In Mum’s circle, you pop along early and ask if there’s anything you can do. All the women will be rolling up their sleeves and fighting over who should carry the vol-au-vents through. All the men will be drinking beers and smoking and telling each other what a great guy Mike was.

“Tim’s on his way,” adds Hannah, and I quickly say, “Great!”

I’m always careful to sound enthusiastic when we discuss Tim. He’s a good, solid, loyal guy. He’s got the same kind of logical brain as Hannah’s. But he’s missing her empathy. He always pursues the conversation a bit too far and says tactless things without even realizing.

I’ll always remember him saying, “But, Fixie, presumably you simply didn’t revise hard enough,” when I failed an English test at school. Who talks like that? (Tim, that’s who.)

Hannah doesn’t mind, though. She says she likes the fact he’s straightforward and doesn’t play games. (I can’t actually imagine Tim playing a game, except some super-high-IQ contest in which he’d keep correcting his competitor.)

“Did you get yourself a drink, love?” says Mum to Hannah, and Hannah waves back a glass at her.

“Grapefruit juice.”

“Ah.” Mum nods wisely. We both know all about Hannah’s regime for conceiving. She and Tim have been trying for four months, and Hannah is already a total expert on maternity-leave rights, cribs, and breastfeeding counselors. She’s also read a million books on child-rearing and has decided to bring up her children as Danish-French hybrids. Apparently then they’ll be super-relaxed, stylish, and eat their vegetables. (I said once, “Why not bring them up British?” and she stared at me and said, “British?” like I was nuts.)

“OK, so how can I help?” she says now. “What needs doing? Let’s break it down.”

Let’s break it down is Hannah’s favorite phrase in the world. Give her any job, from a client report to washing her hair, and she’ll break it down into smaller tasks. Her Christmas to-do list has 926 entries, beginning with Order wrapping paper on Boxing Day.

“We’re fine, love,” says Mum fondly, who was once given a color-coded organizational calendar by Hannah for her birthday and used it to doodle on during phone calls. Mum really isn’t into systems. She runs the shop out of a hardback notebook, where she writes cryptic messages like Forks—68 or just Greg? and always knows what she meant.

The doorbell rings, and my stomach lurches. Oh God, is that— It might be—

“I’ll go!” I say before I can stop myself. I’m aware of Mum and Hannah exchanging looks, but I ignore this and hurry downstairs, nearly tripping on my heels, rehearsing my greeting.